


The Old Bad Songs

by fengirl88



Series: The Old Bad Songs and other stories [1]
Category: Maurice (1987), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairing, E.M. Forster - Freeform, M/M, Mystery, Queer History, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-15
Updated: 2010-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade becomes enmeshed in a blackmail case he is working and has to turn to Sherlock for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watching the Detectives

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for kopoushka, who requested it on livejournal after reading Close Analysis, and who suggested that Lestrade and an older Maurice could meet over a blackmail case. It follows on from the incidents in Close Analysis and Unpredictable.
> 
> The title of the story is a translation of a Schumann song title, Die Alten Bösen Lieder, and makes sense eventually. Individual chapter titles are taken from songs this Lestrade knew in his youth.

He's the first man who's been able to take Lestrade's mind off Sherlock for more than five minutes. That part of Lestrade's mind, at any rate. Which Lestrade knows he probably should be grateful for. God knows he needs _something_ to do that.

Probably shouldn't be this though.

It _really_ shouldn't be this.

If there's one cast-iron rule in the job, even more than not shagging your boss, it's that you don't do it with a civilian who's called the police in to help. Particularly if what he's called you in to help with is a nasty case of blackmail.

Not that Lestrade _is_ doing it with M., of course. But he knows he shouldn't even be thinking about it. And the fact that he's thinking about it at all is a worry.

Hadn't realized how much the Sherlock stuff was affecting him. Clouding his judgement. He's going to have to do something about that, though he's not sure what. Go out and get laid? Chance would be a fine thing. And Lestrade has an uneasy feeling it might not do the job.

Can't exactly go on sick leave because you've been crossed in love, Lestrade thinks, and winces. _Crossed in love_ should have been ironic, an obvious piss-take. Doesn't feel like one though. Feels a bit too close to the truth for comfort.

He's always known Sherlock could mess with his mind and, God help him, his body. Like nobody else. But it always used to seem like a game they were playing. Bit of a weird and twisted game, sure; the sort you mostly don't get into unless you've had one too many - or several. Games he's played before when he was drunk: _Truth or Consequences. I've Never. Strip Poker._

Or that one where you end up with your pants round your ankles and having sex in front of the guy's flatmate. Just to pick an example at random.

Yep, being with Sherlock was a bit like being under the influence. Often, _exactly_ like it. But the worst you'd wake up with usually was a hangover and a few embarrassing flashbacks, and _that_ never stopped anyone from getting sloshed the next time.

This feels different. This actually hurts. Which Lestrade really wasn't expecting, and doesn't know what to do with. He'd thought that finally getting his leg over with Sherlock would mean he didn't mind about Sherlock and JW. Just goes to show how wrong you can be.

The sex had been pretty good. _Bloody_ good, actually, in the circumstances. Probably not going to help to get Sherlock out of his system, though, not sure why he'd thought it would. He'd felt cheerful for a couple of days afterwards, had even thought it might happen again, given how much Sherlock had seemed to be enjoying himself – which would be nice.

Then he'd run into Sherlock and John Watson at a crime scene looking annoyingly pleased with themselves and a sight too comfortable with each other for Lestrade's peace of mind. Not clambering all over each other or anything like that. Just – _easy_ , somehow. Like they've been married for years. Something about the way they look at each other, seem to know each other's next move... Enough to turn your stomach.

Enough to turn Lestrade's, anyway. That jealous knotted feeling seems to have taken up permanent residence in his gut. Plus, his chest hurts, which never used to happen.

He doesn't know if they're shagging, though he thinks they probably are. But even if he tells himself they aren't it doesn't seem to make any difference. DI Lestrade: new hobby, pining like a bloody schoolgirl. Great. Just what he needs in his life, a pointless emotional complication with no hope of resolution.

So of course he acquires another one. To take his mind off the first one. Stroke of genius, really.

Which is where M. comes into the picture, even though he _absolutely_ shouldn't. If Lestrade can't sort himself out pretty damn quick he's going to have to ask to be taken off the case, and he's not looking forward to trying to explain _that_ one to the Assistant Commissioner. _Sorry, sir, I accidentally shagged the blackmail victim_.

Not that it's going to come to that.

He does think M. is ... interested though. Lestrade's judgement may not be working but his instincts still function well enough for that sort of thing.

M. doesn't have to keep coming to the Yard the way he does, for a start. Lestrade's going to have to have a word with him about that, thinking about it. He's not sure about this, but he thought he heard Anderson saying something about _the boss's new boyfriend_ last time M. turned up to ask yet again about developments. Being over-anxious is one thing, but M. almost seems to be making excuses to see Lestrade, claiming he's remembered something else the blackmailer told him, which then turns out to be too vague to be useful.

Lestrade's mobile rings, making him jump. If he's starting to have the jitters this really _is_ getting out of hand.

Unknown caller. Hmm. _That_ shouldn't be happening. He keeps his number a closely guarded secret. Unless it's Sherlock again, but he usually texts rather than calls. Probably just as well, given the effect his voice has on Lestrade. Sherlock could make the Argos catalogue sound like the early stages of phone sex.

"Hallo?" Lestrade says, cautiously.

Silence at the other end.

"Lestrade here. Who is that?"

" _You've been a naughty boy, Inspector._ " Not a voice he recognizes.

Lestrade's stomach churns with apprehension. He tries to sound cool. "Sorry, I don't have time for nuisance callers."

"You really had better make time for _me_ ," the voice says.

Man's voice, Lestrade thinks, quite a high one; could just possibly be a deep-voiced woman. Faint trace of an accent he can't quite identify.

"Why would I want to do that?" Lestrade asks, still trying to sound casual and unruffled. Some hopes.

"Oh, you surely don't need me to tell you," the voice sneers.

"Actually, I do," Lestrade says. "If you don't want me to hang up, that is."

There's a laugh. Not a nice one. Lestrade feels he really doesn't want to spend any more time getting to know this person better. Wishes for once he wasn't a poor bloody copper and could just hang up on the tosser, rather than feeling he's got to get to the bottom of this.

"Well," says the voice, "let's just say that you wouldn't want your dear friend to come to any harm. I'm sure we can agree on that."

"If I knew who you were talking about we might," Lestrade says. Wonders if it _is_ a wind-up after all: this is sounding pretty vague.

"Come, come, Inspector," the voice chides him. "It's not like you to be so disingenuous. Your transparency, pathetic as it is, is part of your charm."

"I'm going to hang up now," Lestrade says, knowing he isn't.

"No, you're not," the voice says, accurately.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Lestrade sounds shakier than he could wish, but this bastard is starting to rattle him. Which is really annoying.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," the voice says. "You have five days. After that, everyone is going to know."

"Know _what_?" Lestrade is flummoxed again. He didn't think he had any guilty secrets left. Apart from his feelings for Sherlock, of course, but he can't see how this person would know about them. Or indeed how revealing _that_ would harm a "dear friend". Sherlock already knows, and the only other person who would care is the blasted Watson. _Not_ a dear friend of Lestrade's.

"About you and your City gent, of course," the voice says impatiently. "The charming Mr Hall. The gutter press will just love it, don't you think?"

 _Shit_. Looks as if Lestrade is too late to warn M. off.

"Are you the one who's been writing to him?" he says, before he can stop himself. _Christ, Lestrade, show the nice blackmailer all the cards in your hand, why don't you?_

Another laugh. Nastier, if possible. "You'd hardly expect me to say yes to that, now, would you? But let's just say I know about the correspondence. Quite a lot about it. And about how _grateful_ Mr Hall has been for all your help."

Lestrade is sweating now; he doesn't know what to do. "You've made a mistake," he says hoarsely.

"On the contrary," the voice says, "the mistake is _yours_."

There's a click and then the dial tone. Gone. Should have tried to put a trace on it, do it next time. But how do you explain to your team that some vicious nutjob is trying to make you _part_ of the blackmail case you were called in to investigate?

Lestrade taps in a number. It's slightly worrying that he doesn't have to look it up.

M's voice at the other end, sounding agitated.

"Has he – has the blackmailer tried to make contact with you again?" Lestrade asks.

"Just now," M. says. "Said he – they were fed up with the stalling and that unless I pay them twice what they originally asked they'll go to the tabloids with all of it."

Lestrade nearly asks if the blackmailer mentioned _him_ , but if they didn't then that's not going to help. No point in adding to M's fear.

This isn't how he'd have wanted to bring it up, but he can't see how else to do it right now.

"Best if you don't come to the Yard for a bit," he says carefully. "Don't want to aggravate them."

It's turning out to be a field day for unnerving silences.

Eventually, M. says "I need to see you."

"Look, I'll send Sergeant Donovan round to take down any more details," Lestrade says. Which _is_ what he should have been doing all along.

"It's not that," M says. "Or not exactly."

Oh Christ, not more of this. If M wants to have a mid-life coming-out crisis why can't he have it over someone else, for fuck's sake? _Why_ does it have to be Lestrade?

Always assuming that's what this is, Lestrade rebukes himself. _Assume nothing_ , wasn't that the slogan?

"Look, Maurice," he says, "it's not safe."

Realizes too late that he should have said _Mr Hall_ , or _Sir_ , or nothing at all.

As the mystery voice said, the mistake is his.


	2. The British Police Are The Best In The World

Meeting Maurice Hall for the first time brought it all back to him.

Lestrade doesn't know the man's age for sure, but it must be much the same as his own. Which means he understands where Hall is coming from in a way that, say, Donovan can't.

 _She_ thinks it's all different these days. Doesn't really get why anyone would need to be in the closet. Understands that if you _are_ in the closet of course you can be blackmailed about that. But she's obviously quite impatient about it, thinks Hall brought it on himself and basically must just be a spineless wanker.

Donovan's a good copper, and (despite that thing with Anderson) pretty smart into the bargain. Has her kinks – who doesn't? But the real problem here is that she's just too _young_. Too young to know what it was like when Hall and Lestrade were growing up.

Lestrade enjoys working with people younger than him, most of the time. Which is just as well, because most of the time that's what he does, these days. The policemen – and women – are getting younger, not a word of a lie. Their energy and enthusiasm and their _stamina ..._ Christ, he couldn't do that now, so it's just as well someone can. But every now and then you hit a case like this where it matters that your team were still in nappies, or indeed not yet even a glint in the milkman's eye, when you were growing up a young gay man.

He's tried to give Donovan the lecture, but he's not sure it really went in. People think homosexuality stopped being illegal in 1967. That's if they know anything at all, which these days mostly they don't. But he _remembers_ being sixteen, knowing any man who shagged him in the next _five years_ could end up in prison. While all around him other 16-year-olds were having legal (if almost certainly ill-advised and fumbling) sex with their same-age girlfriends.

Any of the men who came to the big house, for example, in his bedroom-window-climbing days, could have ended up in jail for what happened after he climbed in. They might be legal with each other, but not with him.

He remembers parties in the late 70s, full of gloomy right-on teenagers singing along to Tom Robinson's "Glad To Be Gay":

_Make sure your boyfriend's at least 21_

_So only your friends and your brothers get done._

Remembers how it went on, too:

_Lie to your workmates, lie to your folks,_

_Put down the queens and make anti-queer jokes,_

_Gay Lib's ridiculous, join in the laughter:_

_The buggers are legal now, what more are they after?_

There was a lot of that, back then. Covering up by pretending you hated and despised the thing you secretly were. He didn't do that himself – doesn't know how he escaped it, though he's grateful he did. But he saw enough of it in others to recognize it for what it was. And to know the scars can last a lifetime.

He knows he was one of the lucky ones, in all the ways that matter. Never got sent out as a pretty policeman to trap some poor unsuspecting fucker out cottaging. He doesn't know how he'd have coped with that. Might have had to leave the job. Doesn't _think_ he could have gone along with it. Hopes he wouldn't have.

There was a lot of betrayal, back then.

Lucky in his first DI, Williams. Lestrade was never sure if Williams _knew_ he was gay, but something clearly told Williams it was a bad idea to send Lestrade on that sort of job. Even though anyone else would have thought young Lestrade had _pretty policeman_ written all over him. Certainly had the looks for it, back then. These days, he tries not to let the mirror catch his eye.

Meeting Maurice Hall shakes him up, though. Because the first thing Lestrade notices, almost, even before he takes stock of the river view and the high-design decor and the hundred and one other signs in Hall's penthouse flat screaming _serious money_ , is that Hall is ... checking him out. Which is weird, to say the least of it. But Hall's eyes are definitely inspecting Lestrade in a disconcertingly familiar way. One that would make complete sense if they were in a bar or a club. But which is seriously out of place between a high-flying stockbroker and the DI who's come round to see about the blackmail. And which makes Lestrade feel ... well, _interesting_ , and more fanciable than he has for a very long time. Apart from that half-hour on the sofa with Sherlock, which he's trying not to think about.

Lestrade gives himself a mental slap and asks Hall to tell him what's been happening. They sit on opposite sides of the room, drinking the best coffee Lestrade's had in years as he tries not to sink into the rather too comfortable armchair. Man could get used to this sort of life, though not on a DI's salary.

Donovan takes notes. Lestrade wonders fleetingly if she noticed that thing with Hall eyeing him up. Decides it's best to pretend it didn't happen.

So, the blackmail. Started about a month ago. Letters, first. The usual anonymous filth. Surprisingly old-style, really: does _anyone_ still cut words out of the papers and paste them onto cheap writing-paper like that? All a bit Agatha Christie for the 21st century. At first the letters are just abusive. Then they start threatening to Reveal All.

"Mr Hall," Lestrade says, "we know this is – difficult for you. But we need to ask you what it is that this person is threatening to reveal."

Hall looks briefly angry, as if Lestrade has no right to ask such a thing. Lestrade's seen that look before. It goes with the money and the class confidence – arrogance, really - that says Lestrade and Donovan are just the hired help and they ought to know their place. He used to see a lot of that look at the big house when he was young. Often in the faces of men who would later be begging him to suck them off, or indeed who'd done exactly that the night before and were now regretting it and wondering -

He shouldn't be thinking about this. Doesn't help that Hall reminds him of one of those men he climbed in to, one of the nicer ones, poor confused sod. Never did find out what happened to him. Same fair hair and broad forehead, same classic handsome English features, same puzzled expression as if he was just waking up for the first time in his life. He'd probably look like this now, with those laughter lines at the corner of his eyes.

Hall stops looking angry and starts talking, which is just as well. _Concentrate_ , Lestrade. Thank God for Sally, writing it all down.

"At Cambridge," Hall begins, and stops dead. Lestrade thinks for one ghastly moment that Hall might be about to start crying. _Really_ hopes not.

Hall tries again. "At Cambridge, I had a – relationship. With someone who is – who became - " Stops again.

Lestrade says nothing, hopes to God Donovan isn't going to butt in trying to be helpful. No, she's waiting too. Knows her stuff.

Hall says "I can't tell you his name. He's – in politics. But he would suffer if – if this – person does what he's threatening to do."

They'll have to get the name, of course. Best not to push for it right now though. Let the man talk.

"You say _what he's threatening to do_ ," Donovan says. "Do you _know_ this person is a man?"

Hall looks startled, though it's a perfectly sensible question.

"I _don't_ know," he says after a bit. "I just – assumed. I – I don't have a lot to do with women," he adds, almost apologetically.

Lestrade doesn't look at Donovan. Suspects he knows what she's thinking, though, and hopes her face doesn't show it too plainly. There's an awkward silence.

"How old were you, then?" Lestrade asks.

Hall looks at him, a quick look that says _You know about this, don't you? I was right_.

"I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. He's – he got married pretty much straight after Graduation. Always wanted to go into politics and knew he needed a wife if he was going to stand a chance of being chosen as a candidate. People were still talking about the Jeremy Thorpe case, even a couple of years later. Lots of suspicion of single men, especially the handsome ones."

Lestrade remembers the Thorpe scandal. Well, he would: his part of the world. A lot of the guests at the big house seemed to know Thorpe or his wife, and would try to be worldly about it all while obviously panicking like crazy in case anyone thought _they_ were _like that._ He nods, understandingly.

"So your – this man you were involved with," Lestrade says. "Is he still married?"

"Yes," Hall says, grimacing. "These days, he's rather hot on _family values_."

Lestrade winces. Can't be much fun for Hall, seeing his ex become a right-wing hypocrite. Surprising, in a way, that Hall doesn't _want_ to see the bastard outed. Except, Lestrade supposes, if Hall is in the closet himself.

Something of this must be showing in his face, because Hall responds as if he's said it out loud.

"I keep my private life private. What there is of it, which these days is not much," he says.

 _Christ, what a waste_ , Lestrade thinks. Follows it up with another mental slap. _Focus_.

"Of course I was hurt when he got married. But even though he's become – what he has – I don't want to see him destroyed. And this would destroy him."

Donovan can't contain herself any longer. "Bloody politicians, they're all the same!"

" _Sergeant Donovan_ ," Lestrade says warningly.

"Sorry," she says, though he can tell she'd like to say something quite different.

"Hypocrisy in public life is pretty widespread, it's true," Hall says wearily. "But it's not just about the – about what happened with him and me. It was – we -"

He stops, gathers himself for another effort. "Some of his friends were – rather wild."

Drugs, Lestrade thinks. Probably. Complication. Going to find out things that would put him or his mate behind bars, if anyone follows through with a prosecution. Tricky.

"Parties?" he asks.

Hall pulls a face. "Some," he says.

"So it's possible the blackmailer was part of this crowd," Lestrade suggests. "Someone who came to the parties?"

Hall looks, surprisingly, as if that hadn't occurred to him.

"Could be someone who needs the money now for a drug habit," Lestrade says carefully.

"Big drug habit," Donovan says sceptically. She's looking at the admittedly eye-watering sum in the blackmail letter.

"No such thing as a small one," says Lestrade.

They sit there for a minute, looking at the letter.

"Has this person made contact with you in any other way?" Lestrade asks.

Hall looks spooked, as if Lestrade is a mind-reader or something. Poor sod seems not to know this is the obvious next question. Or maybe he's just not thinking too clearly at the moment.

"A phone call. This morning," he says. "Not long before you got here."

Why didn't the stupid fucker mention that first off? Oh well. No point in worrying about that now.

"Landline or mobile?" Lestrade asks.

"Landline. I – I don't give out my mobile number, but the landline's in the book. Kept meaning to go ex-directory and never got round to it." Which sounds rather a weak explanation.

"We can put a tap on your phone, try to trace the call if he – if they call again," Lestrade says. "Apart from that, we can get forensics to go over the letters, see if there are any clues there. But really what we need is anything _you_ can tell us about this person. Did the voice sound familiar?"

Hall thinks about it. "Yes and no," he says eventually. Lestrade is aware of Donovan twitching irritably. Wills her not to say anything. She doesn't.

"Yes and no?" Lestrade asks.

"The voice _did_ sound familiar in a way. But I really _don't_ think I'd ever heard it before," Hall says. "It sounded – _like_ a voice I've heard before, but as if it wasn't the same one."

This makes sense to Lestrade. Sort of. "Did you know who it sounded like?" he asks.

Hall shakes his head. "All I know is, it was an echo from a long time ago." Not much help, really.

"And is there anyone you can think of from that time, anyone at all, who might bear a grudge towards you or – this other man?"

Lestrade is already getting a pretty clear idea of who Hall's ex might be, but he tries not to let that show, or to think about it yet. If he's right, though, they'll need to look into the other man's contacts a.s.a.p., because he's a _much_ more obvious target than Hall, despite Hall's wealth. What's odd is why a blackmailer would go to Hall _first_. If he did, if they did. Can't know that till you question the other guy, and at the moment Hall is obviously not wanting to give them his name. Have to lean on him about that soon; run the tests first and see how much more they can get out of Hall _without_ leaning.

Hall looks blank. "I can't think of anyone," he says. "I will try. If I remember anything I'll – I'll let you know straight away."

They talk practicalities, what needs to happen about the phone tap and so on. Lestrade gives Hall his card with the Yard number on it, says there's always someone there to take a message, any time of day, so to call the minute anything occurs to him.

Donovan's already out of the door and pressing the button for the fancy glass lift when Hall gives Lestrade _his_ card. The address and landline are on the front; but on the back there's a pencilled mobile number and the words _Please call me. M._

"I thought you said you didn't give out your mobile," Lestrade says. If Hall is this free with his private contact details it puts the case in a new and even more worrying light.

"I don't," Hall says, astonishingly.

Lestrade doesn't know what to make of that. Puts the card in his pocket and prepares to forget about it. Doesn't know why Hall would do such a thing, except for the reason that absolutely doesn't make sense. The reason that means the last thing Lestrade should ever do is ring this number and really he should just refuse to take it, or drop it in the river or something. Well, not that, obviously. Not safe.

This is turning out to be a weird day, Lestrade thinks, saying goodbye to Hall and joining Donovan in the lift. Hall's still standing in the doorway, looking at them. Looking at Lestrade.

As the lift begins to descend, Lestrade realizes he hasn't thought about Sherlock once, not since that first moment when Hall looked at him like that.

Interesting. Best not to dwell on it though. Could be a serious distraction. And this is obviously one of those bloody cases where you really need your wits about you.

The edges of the card are sharp against his fingers. He takes his hand out of his pocket and tells himself he's not going to think about it again.


	3. You'd Better Speak Up Now, It Won't Mean A Thing Later

Maurice Hall holds out for twenty-four hours before he turns up at the Yard and tells Lestrade his ex's name. Gets points for obstinacy, Lestrade supposes, even if not for common sense. And Lestrade _had_ been right about who it was. Durham. Minister for Victorian Values or whatever that stupid Department was calling itself these days.

So Lestrade and Donovan interview Durham, which doesn't go well.

Unproductive, for starters. Durham insists he has no idea who might want to blackmail him or Hall. Also, no, he can't remember the name of _anyone_ who used to come to his parties in Cambridge. _Or_ anything else about them. Well, it is nearly thirty years ago. Does _Lestrade_ remember parties from thirty years ago?, Durham asks sarcastically.

Lestrade does, actually, but he doesn't say so.

As well as unproductive, the interview with Durham is bloody unpleasant. Lestrade doesn't usually think of himself as easily intimidated or made uncomfortable by politicians. Had to grill a few in his time, one thing and another. But Durham is something else again, and it's not the Palace of Westminster's fault. He's a few notches up the social scale from Maurice Hall. Not aristocracy, but definitely big-house gentry. And his look and his manner and his accent raise hackles Lestrade didn't know he still _had_. Lestrade can't remember who coined that phrase about _the hidden injuries of class,_ but they certainly had the right fucking idea. The temptation to let Donovan loose on this bastard is almost irresistible. Lestrade can tell she's dying to have a go at him.

He resists it, though. Case to solve, and a row won't help that. Not Maurice Hall's fault he has such piss-awful taste in men. Happens to the best of us. Lestrade sighs. Though what Hall ever saw in this one… Maybe he was pretty when he was young. There'd have to be _something_. Complete waste of space now. Says a lot for Maurice's loyalty – for _Hall's_ loyalty, Lestrade corrects himself quickly – that he held out as long as twenty-four hours before dobbing this one in.

So he and Donovan get whatever basic information Durham allows them to prise from him (not much beyond what College he was at and when, which they could have got from the Net anyway), and take their leave. Good to be out of that stuffy room. Wouldn't think a big room with a ceiling that high could _be_ that stuffy. Must be coming from Durham.

"Jesus, what a tight-arse!" Donovan explodes once they're in the corridor.

Lestrade knows he should tell her not to talk like that about a member of Her Majesty's Government. And when he stops laughing he's going to do just that. Maybe.

"Trip to Cambridge seems indicated," he says. "See what you can find out."

" _Me_?" She sounds scandalized, like he's suggested she take up pole-dancing or something.

"Well, someone's got to go and dig around, and you've met these guys," Lestrade says. _These guys_. Hah.

She gives in eventually, though he has to insist, and to promise she can call him if she gets out of her depth. Seems to think Cambridge is full of pointy-headed lunatics who never stop talking. Like Sherlock, only not so good-looking.

Not sure where that thought came from. He'd been setting a new record for _time spent not thinking about Sherlock_. Oh well.

When he gets back to the Yard, there's a note saying _Mr Hall rang again, says please will you ring him_ and the landline number. He rings, but there's no answer. Leaves a message to call him back. Then, and he never knows why he does this, because it's _so_ clearly stupid and wrong, he fishes out the card from his pocket and calls the mobile number. From his mobile. A thing that makes no sense at all even as he's doing it.

Rings a bit, he thinks it'll go to voicemail and he'll just hang up, but then -

"Hallo?" Hall's voice, sounding a bit apprehensive.

"It's Lestrade. You asked me to call and – I left a message on your other phone."

"Oh." Hall sounds thrown, as if he hadn't expected Lestrade to use this number, despite that pencilled message on the card.

"So, what did you want to – have they been in touch with you again?" Lestrade asks. His day for floundering, apparently.

"No – oh, no, nothing like that."

So why _has_ Hall rung him up? Lestrade is too annoyed to make it easy by asking him. Still smarting from the interview with Durham. Let Hall make the effort. _He's_ the one who said he wanted to talk, dammit.

"Could we – meet?" Hall's voice is tentative, sounds a lot younger suddenly. Probably not a good sign.

"Meet?"

"Um. There are – things I'd find it easier to talk about if -"

"Easier to talk about not at the Yard?" Lestrade suggests.

"Mm. Yes. But also – I know I shouldn't ask you this, you must think I have no sense of propriety - "

What the fuck is he on about _now_?

"- But I'd find it much easier if I could just talk to you one to one," Hall says in a great rush.

Lestrade knows the correct answer to this should be "Tough shit", given what's already happened with the look and the message on the card. Or a polite version of "Tough shit" at least.

"It's not usual procedure," he says, feebly.

"But – _could_ we?"

 _Oh bollocks._ There's a note of appeal in Hall's voice that Lestrade has never known how to resist when it goes with that particular accent. If it's not someone he's arresting, obviously. Plus, he does feel quite sorry for the poor sod, as well as wanting to shake him for being such a dipstick. Trying to protect Durham, who so clearly is _not_ worth protecting.

"This is all very irregular," he says, which sounds even more feeble than _not usual procedure_.

" _Please_ ," Hall says.

Lestrade knows he should stand firm, should insist on having another officer present at the interview. Should behave as if it _is_ an interview. Particularly given Hall's obvious interest in him, which was definitely still there this morning. Nevertheless, he agrees to go round to the flat. Tells the desk sergeant he's going out but will keep his mobile on. _Doesn't_ say where he's going.

Is this some kind of personal challenge for how many things he can do wrong in one afternoon?

And when he gets there, Hall doesn't seem to know what it is he wants to say. Which is awkward. So Lestrade tries getting him to talk more about Cambridge, see if anything helpful comes out of that. Bit sticky at first, but once he gets going it's actually quite hard to shut him up. None of it seems particularly relevant to the case, but there's a hell of a lot about realizing he was gay and what happened with Durham and how he felt when Durham told him he was getting married. And several pots of tea.

Lestrade really ought to get back to work, especially if this is all there's going to be: an unstoppable flow of reminiscences and adolescent yearning. Sort of thing you could just about put up with in a Friday night documentary if there was _absolutely_ nothing else on the box, but hardly groundbreaking stuff. Still, he supposes it helps to build up a picture of young Maurice Hall. Who seems to have been knocked for six by the whole business of being gay. And obviously never really got over the big rejection by Durham. There hasn't been anyone else serious. Not even much casual sex, at least not in this country. Another one of these privileged types going off to get laid abroad, as if somehow it doesn't count if you shag another man on foreign soil. Long tradition of that, of course, Lestrade knows. Usually he disapproves of that sort of thing, but he finds himself feeling unexpectedly sorry for Maurice Hall.

He really _is_ going to have to do something about his chivalrous streak, because it is the most colossal fucking nuisance.

Eventually Hall runs out of steam and Lestrade runs out of questions. So there's another awkward bit where Lestrade says he's going and Maurice says yes, sorry, thanks, must you?, and they go round and round that circuit a few times till Lestrade finally manages to extricate himself and goes back to the Yard to write up as much as he can remember. Knowing it's not much use because he can't really put it on file. But at least he can keep a private record of it, in case something rings a bell. He's always had a pretty good memory for dialogue, so the notes end up being quite extensive.

And really, that should be the end of it. But then Donovan rings up the next day from Cambridge because some fucker of a Don or a Dean or something is giving her the runaround, and Lestrade ends up asking Maurice to lean on the bastard to produce whatever information there is about the drinking society that Durham used to belong to. Which, surprisingly, Maurice does.

More worryingly, Lestrade finds he's crossed the line from _Hall_ to _Maurice_ in his head without quite noticing when it happened. Probably the result of all that teenage yearning pouring out into the room. No way for a grown man to spend the afternoon. Two grown men to spend the afternoon.

Better _not_ to think about that, really.

And then the guy keeps turning up, or ringing up, seems as if hardly a day goes by when he doesn't appear. Meanwhile, the leads from Cambridge turn out mostly dead ends. You wouldn't believe the number of fortysomething men from Cambridge drinking societies who are dead, or have fried their brains with drink and drugs to the point of total incoherence, or who claim amnesia or threaten lawsuits, or both. It's amazing those parties ever happened at all, the number of people who _definitely_ weren't at them. According to them. Even if their names _are_ in the Dean's notice for disciplinary offences in connection with that same society.

So it's really not going well at all. And Lestrade is getting a bit tired of having his ear bent by someone who should probably just go into therapy or ring Gay Switchboard or something. If Gay Switchboard still exists.

He realizes another line has been crossed when Maurice suggests taking him to the opera.

Says no, of course. Opera's not his thing, and anyway... They shouldn't be _socializing_ like this.

Something's gone quite badly wrong if Maurice is _asking him out_ – which is pretty much the only way to classify the opera thing.

Lestrade resolves to stop going round there, put it all on a proper footing, make sure any future meetings are -

 _Chaperoned_ was the word that came to mind there.

Never thought he'd need a bloody chaperone.

Though he supposes the chaperone is for Maurice's benefit really.

Must stop thinking about him as Maurice.

"M" has a suitably clinical sound to it. Maybe that would help.

Lestrade's still trying to implement this new resolution on the day a mystery voice rings up and threatens to tell the tabloids all about him and Maurice Hall.


	4. Mystery Dance

Two nights after the mystery voice gave him five days to solve the case, Lestrade is ragged from lack of sleep. He's no closer to a solution and feels he is going quietly crazy. It has to be quietly, because there's no-one he can talk to about it. Doesn't know how he got himself into this stupid fucking mess. Wishes he'd never met Maurice Hall. Wishes he was dead. Thinks he probably _will_ be, soon, if he goes on not sleeping, not eating, barely remembering to have the odd cup of coffee. The only thing he's managed to cling on to is the nicotine patches: he hasn't cracked and started smoking again. But he's on a knife-edge with that one, and he knows it.

At this rate, his career, and Hall's, and Durham's, not that he cares about that, will be dead too, in about three days' time.

His mind goes round and round, no way out. The Cambridge leads were no fucking use at all. Maurice was only ever on the fringe of that society anyway, not really part of it. Typical Maurice. Drifting about vaguely while bloody dangerous things happen around him. Might as well fall asleep in a fireworks factory with a still-lit cigarette dangling from your lips -

Lestrade is _not_ going to think about cigarettes. Not even in connection with fatal explosions.

He still can't understand why the blackmailer is picking on Maurice Hall rather than on Durham. Why would you threaten a _stockbroker_ if you could go for a Cabinet Minister? He gets that Durham will go down as well, but still. Durham had insisted the blackmailer _hadn't_ been in touch with him: no letters, no calls, nothing. Not even anything faintly odd, never mind obviously criminal.

Could be lying, of course. Lestrade wouldn't put it past the fucker. But he's not sure what Durham would have to gain from lying about it.

It's weird that the anonymous letters to Maurice were so _vicious_ , too. Especially given what Donovan turned up in Cambridge. Maurice was easily led, got into a few minor scrapes, but nothing to what Durham and friends went in for. Even at the parties – which are, frankly, starting to feel like the stuff of myth – he didn't inhale. So to speak. Doesn't seem to have done drugs himself, even if he was in the vicinity when drugs were being done. Doesn't seem to have been part of the orgies, either, such as they were. Just mooned about after Durham and got his heart broken, the poor sap. An innocent bystander.

Lestrade thinks briefly how much he would like to wring the innocent bystander's neck. Decides it's best not to continue thinking about that.

He knows he's starting to fall apart, and it scares him. Donovan's noticed something's wrong, which is not surprising – she's sharp enough for that. But normally she'd keep it to herself or just be snarky about it. Not today.

Never thought he'd live to see the day when _she_ told _him_ he ought to call in Sherlock. Even if she did refer to Sherlock as _that fucking psychopath_.

Never thought he'd turn down that particular piece of advice, either. Doesn't really know why he did.

He's always turned to Sherlock before when he's desperate. Which, let's face it, has been pretty often. And Sherlock's always come up with a solution. Even when it's seemed completely impossible. Especially then.

Case like this, five day deadline _with two days gone already oh sweet Jesus_ , ought to be right up Sherlock's street. So why hasn't Lestrade called him?

He does know, really, if he thinks about it. Just doesn't want to think about it.

Hasn't called Sherlock because he's _ashamed_. Ashamed of his own stupidity in relation to Maurice Hall, ashamed of having crossed the line over and over again between the professional and the personal. And ashamed, painfully so, of the reason why he did it in the first place.

Because Maurice Hall was the only person who'd made him stop thinking about Sherlock for long enough. About Sherlock and John Watson and all of that.

Not a thing he could ever tell Sherlock. He's dying of shame here as it is. Doesn't need to rip out his guts and put them on the table for Sherlock to play cat's-cradle with.

So he doesn't call him, tells Donovan she's not to either. Just goes on banging his head against a brick wall and getting more and more ragged and stupid from lack of sleep, and from the nightmare torments of trying to make his exhausted brain work on this intolerable bloody _mess_ he's got himself into.

He's in the flat, lying awake, knowing another sleepless night lies ahead. Knows he ought to get undressed and go to bed properly, but can't seem to get the energy to do it. He's almost drifting off when he hears the unmistakable sound of someone breaking into the flat. Skilfully, not clumsily. But still, breaking in.

Lestrade is in a cold sweat. The mystery voice has got fed up with waiting, obviously, and decided to come round and kill him now. _That will save time_ , he thinks, and realizes he's light-headed because he hasn't eaten for the last 48 hours. Which is not going to help if it comes to a scrap.

His mind runs through possible weapons within easy reach. Is not pleased with the results. If he gets out of this alive he will definitely do something to remedy the lack of hardware in the bedroom. Meanwhile, he tries to get off the bed without making the springs creak. _Knew he should have replaced that fucking mattress_. Which isn't what you want your last thought in this world to be. Looks as if even dying with dignity is off the menu.

He can hear the person moving around, quietly, confidently, not bumping into anything. Which is, if possible, even more alarming. And his police radio is on the other side of the room. Christ, he is _really_ slipping. Another stupid reason to die -

At which point the bedroom door opens and Sherlock comes in.

"You're in the dark with your clothes on. Why?" Sherlock says, switching the light on. Stating the obvious. Not like him.

Lestrade thinks he may just have fallen asleep after all because this can't really be happening. It feels like a joke in _really_ bad taste by a particularly sadistic Deity.

"Sherlock," he says, exhausted. "What are you doing here?"

Normally that would be _What the_ _ **fuck**_ _are you doing here?_ , but Lestrade just doesn't have the energy.

Sherlock looks a bit surprised. "Are you all right?" he says.

Never asked Lestrade that before, and it catches him off guard, gets him somewhere in the throat. He struggles to speak.

"No of course I'm not," he says.

Sherlock looks surprised by the _of course_. Fair enough.

Lestrade tries again: "Please. Go. Away. Can't keep. Doing this."

 _Hasn't_ done it recently, of course. Not since he and Watson -

"You never minded before," Sherlock says, sounding a bit hurt and indignant.

"I _always_ minded before," Lestrade says, briefly energized. "You just _ignored_ me every time I told you _not_ to break into my fucking flat."

Sherlock looks faintly relieved, as if to say _That's more like it_.

"Why _are_ you here?" Lestrade asks. His energy seems to be deserting him as quickly as it had flared up.

"I was bored," Sherlock says. "John's gone out - "

"Sarah?" Lestrade would have been hopeful about this once, but even that reflex doesn't seem to be working tonight.

"No, Clara. Ex-sister-in-law. They've gone to a film that lasts six hours or something. About Parisian theatre in the nineteenth century. Bound to be dull. Can't think why he wanted to go."

Lestrade may be dying by inches but he has _some_ pride left. And he is _not_ acting as fill-in for bloody Watson.

"Sherlock, I know you're bored, but please, will you just – just go _home_. Go home and wait for him. Then you can have a nice game of Doctors and -" He can't think of anything. Settles for "...whatever it is the two of you usually play."

Sherlock looks pained by the poor quality of Lestrade's insult. Lestrade thinks it would be a bloody sight easier to produce good quality insults if it wasn't roughly 500 years since he last had _any bloody sleep_.

"He's going to be out for _ages_ ," Sherlock says.

"Really not my problem," Lestrade says wearily. "Do go _away_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock looks as if he's about to go into a major sulk, which Lestrade really does _not_ have the will or the energy to deal with.

"I thought I could stay here," Sherlock says.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock. Thinks about pinching himself. _Not happening_ , he tells himself. _Seriously not happening. Going to wake up any minute._

"I thought you might like it," Sherlock says. "After last time."

This is all making no fucking sense whatsoever. If Lestrade had the energy he would start banging his head rhythmically against the wall. But he doesn't.

"Haven't got time for this," Lestrade says flatly.

Sherlock looks taken aback. Admittedly it's unusual. Well, unprecedented, really. Five years of giving in to Sherlock, always doing what he wanted in the end. Five years of being jerked around, played with, teased and insulted. Five years of aching with lust and making a fool of himself, and Sherlock _always_ knowing, _always_ , what makes him tick. Never been _here_ before, Sherlock being surprised by anything Lestrade could do.

First time for everything. Lestrade just wishes he had the energy to enjoy it. Though if he had that, it probably wouldn't be happening in the first place.

"Why are you being like this?" Sherlock asks. An unusual question – well, an unusual _form_ of question. Almost like something you'd say if you were actually _interested_ in people. Which, God knows, Sherlock is not, unless they're part of a case.

Right now, of course, Lestrade _is_ part of one. His best chance in _years_ for getting Sherlock's undivided attention. Just can't bring himself to do it.

Sherlock takes a step towards him. Looks surprisingly tentative. Lestrade doesn't know what his own face is giving out, but it's unlikely to be particularly bloody encouraging, given that he is willing Sherlock to bugger off and let him get some _sleep_.

"Go home," he says again.

Sherlock ignores him, crosses the distance between them, puts his arms around Lestrade – _no, definitely asleep now, seriously not happening, none of it._ _ **Christ.**_

If this is a dream it's too bloody warm and solid by half.

Lestrade is panicking. Not the reaction he'd ever thought he'd have at being embraced by Sherlock. But in the state he's in he literally can't bear the thought of more teasing and mind-fucking and humiliation. Been round this one too many times before, and he's just so _tired_.

He pushes Sherlock away, as hard as he can, so that Sherlock staggers and falls against the wardrobe. Nasty cracking sound as Sherlock hits his elbow on the edge of it. Then quite a lot of swearing. Sort of thing that would be funny in other circumstances. Probably.

Doesn't seem to have stopped Sherlock, though. Quite the reverse.

Lestrade is not in bad shape, normally. Well, not really. But the strain and the lack of sleep have weakened him, so he's not best equipped to deal with being jumped by Sherlock, which is what happens next. There's a fair bit of staggering around, more swearing, and then the two of them are on the bed, kicking and scratching and biting and – _Christ_ , what _is_ this?

Sherlock seems to be intent on ripping Lestrade's clothes off. Lots of shirt buttons flying about, and that was definitely a tearing sound. OK, no shirt, _shit_ , what the fuck is he doing? Lestrade is still struggling, though without much hope or conviction. Can't for the life of him work out why Sherlock is doing this – _annoyed with Watson for going to long boring French film_ doesn't seem enough of a motive, though with Sherlock anything is possible. But he's past trying to work it out. Too busy fighting off Sherlock, who is now trying to get Lestrade's trousers off. Trying, and succeeding.

Any minute now there'll be nothing between Lestrade's pitiful nakedness and Sherlock's scorn. It's not even as if he's got anything to show for it, which normally... Oh well. Never mind. Lestrade _knows_ he is going to die anyway soon from lack of sleep and not eating, shortly after being thrown out of the Force and pilloried in the tabloids, not necessarily in that order. So what does it matter what Sherlock does to him, or why? Lestrade gives up the struggle and lies still.

They lie on the bed, Lestrade naked except for his nicotine patch, Sherlock still wearing all his clothes including The Coat, which must be hot. Wearing, too, a rather puzzled look, because this is not the state he's used to seeing Lestrade in. He touches Lestrade's body cautiously, curiously, apparently bewildered by the lack of response. If Lestrade had the energy for it he'd be bewildered too, but he doesn't.

Sherlock looks a bit like a kid who doesn't know why his favourite toy has suddenly stopped working. Even when he takes Lestrade's cock in his hand nothing happens. He frowns. Makes an impatient sort of noise, and moves abruptly down the bed to take Lestrade in his mouth.

The shock of it is quite something in itself, even before the sensation takes hold. It wouldn't be true to say Lestrade couldn't have imagined this. Sometimes, imagining this is the only thing that's ensured him a good night's sleep. But even that hasn't been working recently. And in any case it's not how he imagined it. Not that he can really remember any more how that was. Or remember anything much else, come to that, because this _is_ working, working rather too well in fact, and it's all about to get quite embarrassing and he wants Sherlock to suck harder and move faster and he wants to hold on to him _right there_ and stop him moving at all. And then he doesn't know anything any more, bloody hell, that really is a _lot_ of noise somebody is making, oh Christ it's _him_ , and he can't hold on and he isn't, he doesn't. Gone.

It's quite a while before his head stops spinning and his vision returns to normal. He can still hear his heart whumping, like a washing machine going through the rinse cycle.

Sherlock is up off the bed, out of the room, back again with a glass of something he seems to be using to take the taste away. _Helps the medicine go down_ , Lestrade thinks woozily. He still feels exhausted and confused but at least it's not actually _hurting_ any more the way it was earlier. Maybe he can finally get a decent night's sleep, which would really help.

"So," Sherlock says briskly, "this blackmail case. You need to give me the details. Now. _All_ of them."

Spoke too soon.


	5. One Of The Minor Players

Lestrade looks at Sherlock, who is waiting for him to begin.

"Is _that_ what you're doing here?"

He's awake now all right, as if Sherlock's just thrown a bucket of cold water over him.

"Never mind that," Sherlock says. "You've lost too much time already. _Tell_ me."

" _Donovan_ ," says Lestrade grimly. "I told her not to call you."

"She didn't," Sherlock says.

"?"

"She called John."

Lestrade groans. _Walked into that one._ God save us from a smartarse letter-of-the-law DS with a mind of her own.

"Why didn't you just say that's what you were here for?" he says, his head spinning again.

"Why didn't you just tell me you needed my help?" Sherlock snaps. "And _don't_ say you can manage, because it's bloody obvious you can't."

Lestrade knows it's true, and there's a sort of relief in admitting it. Though he is _not_ telling Sherlock the reason. Not for anything.

"What was all that bullshit about French film, then?" he asks. An easier question right now than _Why did you just suck me off?_

"Not bullshit," Sherlock says grumpily. "True."

Lestrade tells himself it's better not to ask about the sex thing. Obviously. Last thing anyone with any sense would do in the circumstances. Best just to pretend it didn't happen. Who knows why Sherlock does _anything?_

"You're wondering why we had sex," Sherlock says.

"I'm wondering why you _jumped_ me, yes," Lestrade says, rather tartly.

"Loosen you up a bit," Sherlock says. "Element of surprise. Knew you'd resist me otherwise. Given how _stupid_ you've been about not asking for help."

This doesn't make Lestrade feel any better.

"Thought it might be nice, too," Sherlock adds. "It was."

Which does make Lestrade feel better. Loosely speaking. _Better_ in the sense of _hot and bothered and confused all over again._

"Blushing suits you," Sherlock says, grinning.

" _Shut up_."

Not sure who starts the kiss. Sherlock tastes of whisky and woodsmoke – _found the Lagavulin_ , Lestrade deduces – and behind that there's another taste which Lestrade isn't going to think about because if he does he might faint.

"OK," Sherlock says, pulling away. "Enough of that. Tell me from the start and tell me properly."

Groaning a bit, and feeling fuzzy again from the kiss, Lestrade does. Mostly. Soft-pedals the stuff about Maurice checking him out. Doesn't mention the opera thing either. But does, eventually, remember to mention the notes he made after that first long rambling conversation with Maurice.

" _Where_ _ **are**_ _they_?" Sherlock shouts. "Here, or at the Yard? Why didn't you mention them before? Honestly, Lestrade - "

"You try doing without sleep or food for 48 hours and see how well _you_ function," snaps Lestrade.

"I function perfectly well, thank you. _Where are your fucking notes?"_

Fortunately for both of them, and perhaps for the furniture and other breakables in Lestrade's flat, the notes are currently in the top drawer of his home filing cabinet. Sherlock sits down to read them and Lestrade finds he has abruptly ceased to exist. So he thinks he'll seize the moment and have a shower.

Half-way through the shower, the bucket-of-cold-water feeling becomes an unpleasant physical reality rather than a metaphor. Sherlock has turned the hot tap in the bathroom basin full on. Clearly on purpose. Lestrade curses and hops about and nearly slips on the soap. It really _isn't_ fair that so much of his life gets played out as low comedy.

" _Why didn't you tell Donovan to look into the acting?"_ Sherlock yells.

"What?" Lestrade clambers out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it round him as quickly as possible.

"Maurice Hall. _Acting_. Why didn't you say anything about it? Send Donovan to Cambridge sniffing round drinking societies Hall didn't even _belong_ to and _completely_ ignore the one thing you know he _did_ spend time doing apart from having a sexual identity crisis and an unsuitable boyfriend!"

"I forgot," says Lestrade. Doesn't sound good, even to him. "Look, he was maundering on for _hours_ , and anyway why would amateur bloody dramatics lead to blackmail? Nobody gets blackmailed for being crap at acting, even if they should. And Maurice – _Hall_ – said he _was_ crap at it, didn't go on with it beyond his first term at Cambridge."

"Yes, you idiot, and what was his favourite part?"

Lestrade has no idea.

"You _wrote it down,"_ Sherlock says. "It's here in black and white. He played Gerald in the Wilde skit in _Forty Years On_."

Given the unpredictable gaps in Sherlock's knowledge (the solar system, for example), it seems _really_ unfair that this happens to be a play he knows and Lestrade doesn't.

"It's by Alan Bennett," Sherlock says impatiently. "It's set in a _boys' school_."

Lestrade still doesn't get it.

"It has _boys_ in it. Young ones, some of them. They'd have had to use a local school, or something like that. Surely even _you_ can see that that's a lead?"

Sherlock starts pacing around saying "Where's your laptop?" and "What do you mean it's not here?" and "For fuck's _sake_ , Lestrade." Eventually he gets out his own phone and starts sending messages off to all parts of the globe asking for scans of old theatre programmes and student newspapers and God knows what else.

Somewhere in all of this, Lestrade falls asleep. Deeply asleep.

And doesn't wake up until several hours later.

To find Sherlock has disappeared, and the sitting-room seems to have become a makeshift office, with Donovan and Watson and a woman Lestrade's never seen before but he supposes might be Clara, all busy with laptops and mobiles. The place is strewn with half-empty cartons of Chinese takeaway. He realizes he's starving, and starts eating leftovers in an absent-minded way. No point in trying to ask this lot what's going on. They've got that look he knows, gets it himself, so deep into the work that they either won't hear you or they'll lash out and do you some damage if you break their concentration.

The food makes him sleepy all over again and suddenly it's dark. The day – _shit, the third day_ – seems to have gone.

So have Donovan and the other woman. No sign of Sherlock either. Which just leaves bloody Watson, sitting on a hard chair and looking like he's on night duty at the nurses' station.

"What time is it?" Lestrade croaks.

"Past ten," Watson says.

" _Fuck_. Why didn't someone _wake_ me?"

"I told them not to," says Watson primly.

" _What fucking business was that of yours?_ " Lestrade explodes.

"You were at the point of collapse," Watson says, annoyingly. "You needed sleep, food, and sleep, in that order, if you were going to function at all. And there was nothing we needed you for."

"Thank you very much," Lestrade says sarcastically. "So glad you were able to carry on without me."

Watson sighs. Lestrade thinks that JW doesn't like him any better than he likes JW, but that – Sherlock being what he is – they are probably stuck with each other. So he'd better make the best of it.

"Sorry," he says gruffly. "I've been frantic and the thought of losing a whole day - "

"It wasn't lost," Watson says. "I promise you that. Sherlock's found what he was looking for. It's all starting to make sense. Sergeant Donovan's getting a warrant now."

Lestrade blinks. Wonders how much more of this week is going to seem like a weird dream, and whether he will ever feel ordinarily awake again.

Also suddenly feels a bit awkward with JW about what happened with Sherlock last night, which he's only just remembered to think about. And which JW presumably doesn't know about. _Surely_ doesn't know about. That would be _much_ too weird.

He's saved from having to think about it by his phone going off. It's Maurice. Sounding shit-scared.

"Have you seen today's _Times_?" he says, without so much as _hello_.

"No, why?" Probably best not to mention he's been asleep all day, practically.

"Look at the In Memoriam notices," Maurice says agitatedly.

Lestrade wonders irritably how he's supposed to do _that_ when he hasn't been out all day to buy a paper. Then sees to his surprise that there _is_ a copy of today's _Times_ on the coffee-table, open at the Births Marriages and Deaths page. Someone's even ringed one of the announcements:

 **William Vane. Gone but not forgotten. 1965-1981. MH.**

Lestrade looks questioningly at Watson, who says "Sherlock put it in."

" _Sherlock_ did. _Why?"_

"Went round there in the small hours, raised hell, pulled rank – yours, I'm afraid - "

Pinched Lestrade's warrant card again. Beyond a joke.

"Got them to run it. He said it would get things moving."

Maurice is saying something which Lestrade misses. Asks him to repeat it.

"I _knew_ him," Maurice says. "I didn't know he was dead, though. Why does it have my initials? _I_ didn't put it there."

"Don't worry," Lestrade says. "I know who did, and it'll be all right. Look, I'll come round and you can tell me properly, how about that?"

Maurice sounds relieved, and JW is clearly not sorry to end his babysitting shift. Good news all round.

On his way to Maurice's, Lestrade thinks belatedly that he probably should have asked JW to fill him in a bit more before he set off, but he hasn't really got time for that. And Maurice is clearly in a right old state, so the sooner Lestrade gets round there the better.

He does wonder where Sherlock's got to and what he's up to. But there'll be time to find out about that later.

Maurice buzzes him into the building, which is just as well, because the concierge is obviously on his rounds. The door to the flat is ajar, and Maurice's voice, sounding very strained, says "I'm in here." _Where else would he be, silly bugger?,_ Lestrade thinks. Thank fuck Sherlock has cracked this case because Maurice sounds next door to a breakdown. Lestrade's almost forgotten how close he felt to that himself, last night, before Sherlock turned up and -

Afterwards, he thinks it's probably the recollection of sex with Sherlock that distracts him, slows his reflexes. He pushes the door open, sees Maurice tied up on the floor and looking very scared, but before Lestrade can get the fuck out of there it happens.

Classic blow to the head. Slugged from behind by whoever has broken into Maurice's flat and tied him up.

 _Call me Marlowe_ , Lestrade thinks, and falls forward into darkness.


	6. Waiting For The End Of The World

Lestrade's head _really_ hurts. He thinks he might be about to throw up.

...

No. OK. Well, that's something.

Might have concussion just the same. _Shit._

The well-known bang on the head. As featured in every hard-boiled detective story young Lestrade ever read. Usually just after the unsuspecting private dick does something really stupid.

Like walking into a trap, for example.

Lestrade opens his eyes gingerly. Hurts a bit, even though the only light on is the desk lamp in the corner.

Maurice is still tied up. Still looks scared. No change there then.

Lestrade doesn't need to look down to know he's tied up as well. Can _feel_ that.

 _Mystery Voice 1, DI Lestrade nil._

He looks around to see who this bastard is, because it _must_ behim, mustn't it? Can't think who else would attack him and Maurice. Unlikely to be just a passing burglar, and a block like this has pretty good security, what with the concierge -

Who is already in the room.

Is actually the _only_ person in the room apart from Lestrade and Maurice.

Which makes no sense until Lestrade sees the gun.

 _Fuck_.

Lestrade is scared, of course he is, _tied up in a room with a mad bastard with a_ _ **gun**_. But he's also furious with himself for being so _stupid_. Stupid in _that_ way, the way he of all people should know you mustn't be. Though so many people are.

" _Invisible servants_." Shit. Hadn't meant to say that out loud, but he obviously did.

He'd been one of those once himself. That year at the big house, before he decided to join the Force. Not so specialized as it would have been a century earlier, not so many of you, and they called you _the staff_ now, when they remembered. (The Mrs. mostly forgot.) But still the same way of carrying on as if you weren't in the room till they wanted you for something. _Cleaning guns, for example._

He'd walked past the concierge's desk every time he came here and never thought twice about him. Racked his brains for who could know about him and Maurice and not _once_ thought who it was who would see him going up there time after time, would know how long he stayed and what he looked like when he left.

Can't _believe_ he did that. Does promotion really make you that stupid? If he gets out of here alive Lestrade swears he is going to reread every bloody Marxist tract that ever bored the arse off him as a young man. He even promises to buy the _Socialist Worker_ for a month and not think _those thoughts_ about the arse on the young man trying to flog copies outside the Tube station.

If he gets out of here alive.

Not liking the look of that gun at all. Or of the concierge, who doesn't look like he's used to handling one. _Oh fuck._

Lestrade tries to remember anything, anything _at all_ from the training courses about how to deal with hostage situations. Not that he and Maurice are hostages, he thinks. But he can't remember a course on Facing Certain Death. Doesn't think there was one. Can't really remember anything from the hostage ones either, which is bloody annoying. Presumably the bang on the head that's done it. Thinks that trying to engage in conversation would have been in there somewhere, though. Bit tricky to know what to say.

"Are you Mr Vane?" he hears himself ask.

That probably wasn't a great start, whatever the answer turns out to be.

The concierge looks at him the way you'd look at a dog turd you've just walked in.

"My name is Hughes," he says. "Michael Hughes."

It's the voice all right. Lestrade glances at Maurice, who is very pale, and shaking now.

"Is this the same man who rang you?" Lestrade asks, thinking _Never spoken to the bloody concierge so of course he didn't recognize his voice. It just gets better and better._

Maurice nods. Doesn't speak. Possibly _can't_ speak.

Lestrade tries again. "But you are connected with – William Vane?"

Feels quite a dangerous line of enquiry but he can't think of a better one.

"My brother," Hughes says. "Half-brother, some people would say. Can't see it that way though."

Lestrade's never been good at guessing ages, but he thinks this guy must be in his early sixties. So he'd have been, what, eighteen when William was born? Almost like another parent.

"This is all new to me," Lestrade says cautiously. "I didn't know him. Could you – tell me something about him?"

Still feels like he's walking on a tightrope. Over a snake pit or a volcano or a vat of boiling oil or something. But he can't just stand still because then he really _will_ fall in. The only way is to keep going.

"I'm surprised _Mr Hall_ never told you about him," Hughes says, making Maurice's name sound like some unspeakable flesh-eating disease.

Maurice looks really dreadful, like he's about to faint or throw up or something. He's shivering, too. Lestrade tries to shift himself closer to him. Not sure if Maurice registers it. By leaning a bit to his right, Lestrade can just get his elbow against Maurice's. Not much, but the contact seems important to have.

"Sit still, please," Hughes says. The _please_ is oddly unnerving. Lestrade stops moving.

"No, Mr Hall didn't tell me," he says to Hughes. "Do you think you could?"

Hughes looks for a moment as if he thinks shooting Lestrade would be a better idea, but the look passes. When he speaks, his voice is unexpectedly flat: "What is there to say about a boy who died at sixteen?"

Lestrade clings to the idea that talking is good. Doesn't think _You tell me_ would be a good next move, but tries to find something that will do the trick.

"That he was young," he says carefully. "That it was too soon. That he was loved."

He's never tried safe-cracking, for obvious reasons, but he thinks this is what it must have been like in the old days: turning the dial slowly, listening for a click or the fall of the tumblers.

"All of that," Hughes says bleakly. "He should be here now. Should have had a chance to get married, have kids. And this piece of shit took it from him."

Maurice is breathing shallowly, almost hyperventilating. Lestrade needs to do something about this, not sure what. Tries to breathe deeply himself and says very quietly " _With me_."

Maurice seems to know what he means, tries to steady his own breathing to match Lestrade's. Lestrade doesn't risk looking at him. Stays fixed on Hughes.

"Why do you say he took it from him?" Lestrade asks. He keeps expecting Hughes to blow up. Thinks he would almost prefer that to this flatness which gives no purchase, leaves no chink.

Hughes picks something up from the coffee-table: it looks like the exercise-books Lestrade remembers from school.

"It's all in here," Hughes says. "Didn't know he kept a diary, not until I was turning out the house after Mother died. All this time _he_ was walking around scot free and I never knew."

This doesn't sound good. Lestrade worries about why Maurice never mentioned the boy. Then remembers Maurice saying he hadn't known the boy was dead. Wonders how well they knew each other.

"I didn't _know_ ," Maurice says suddenly, as if in answer to Lestrade's thoughts. "I had no idea he was dead. And I'm sorry – I'm _so_ – sorry but – I don't understand."

Hughes's face darkens, and for a moment Lestrade thinks the guy is going to hit Maurice. But he doesn't. Just stands there, looking at Maurice as if looking could make him disappear forever.

"You really don't have any idea, do you?" Hughes says finally.

Maurice shakes his head. Hughes looks even more disgusted than before, which is quite a feat.

"Easily remedied," Hughes says. "You just have to do what I did. Read his diary."

He opens the exercise book and holds it in front of Maurice's face.

"Read it," he says. "Read it out so your _friend_ can hear."

Maurice is shaking again, his teeth chattering. He's not going to make it through this in one piece, Lestrade thinks.

"Maurice," he says gently. "Try to read it. Please."

Maurice starts to read, but it's not easy, because he is crying now. Lestrade wishes he was anywhere but here. Except then Maurice would be alone with this, and that's not right.

"Come on," he says. "Come on, Maurice."

Maurice takes a shuddering deep breath and tries again. Falters and stops.

"Do you want _me_ to read it out?" Lestrade asks Hughes tentatively.

Hughes says "It ought to be _him_. Doesn't even have the guts to face what he did."

"Not sure he's going to manage it," Lestrade says, trying to sound sensible and matter-of-fact and not like someone tied up and talking to a nutcase with a gun.

Seems to have worked. The book moves in front of Lestrade's face instead.

"Where do you want me to start?" Lestrade asks. Is suddenly assailed by a mad temptation to say _Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin_. What you get for being raised on _Listen With Mother_. Bad idea now though. Possibly reaction to the strain or something.

"Start with the 5th of November," says Hughes.

So Lestrade does:

 _I saw Maurice Hall at the fireworks on Midsummer Common. Can't stop thinking about him. Don't think he saw me though._

Oh _Maurice_ , Lestrade thinks. He can see this isn't going to go well at all.


	7. Just Too Bad That He Had To Fall

Lestrade goes on reading out William Vane's diary, and Maurice goes on crying. Quietly, but without letting up.

It's not much of a story really. Certainly not the sort you'd think would end like this, with ropes and a gun.

William Vane had met Maurice in the cast of _Forty Years On_. Sherlock was right about that, though in his woozy state Lestrade still doesn't know how Sherlock worked out which boy was the cause of the blackmailer's fury. Vane was one of the rugger boys singing rude songs; Maurice had his part in the Wilde skit. Both minor players really.

Maurice had been nice to Vane without thinking, Lestrade gathers, the way he is with

almost everyone and probably was back then as well. Still sleepwalking through life, God help him. And Vane had fallen in love with him, mistaken his absent-minded friendliness for something more than it was. Hadn't _told_ Maurice how he felt, just followed him around as much as he could without being conspicuous. Some people would have called it a crush, but Lestrade doesn't write it off like that. Can't, can he? Since apparently it caused Vane's death. And looks to be about to cause two more.

So that's how things were till the show finished its five-day run. And then there was the cast party. Which Vane shouldn't really have been at, being too young for legal drinking. But he'd crashed it, and the director hadn't had the heart to throw him out.

Reading between the lines, it sounds as if Maurice must have been a bit drunk that night, overexcited by the success of the play. Also – Lestrade vaguely remembers this bit of his long conversation with Maurice, which now seems a _very_ long time ago – Maurice was very keyed up then about things with Durham, which were getting quite intense but hadn't yet turned fully sexual.

Accident waiting to happen, really. Lestrade swallows, feeling apprehensive about what's coming next. But it's not what he expects: no underage sex, not even adolescent fumblings really.

"People were dancing," he reads, "and someone put on a slow one. I asked Maurice to dance, didn't think he would say yes but he did. It was the most beautiful feeling I ever remember in my life. If I died tonight I would always be glad that happened. He held me in his arms and he kissed me. Just the top of my head, but it was a kiss. I wasn't sure if he liked me but he must do, mustn't he?"

Lestrade doesn't blame Maurice for crying. Doesn't go in for that sort of thing himself but if he did -

Poor deluded William Vane, getting a kiss that was almost certainly meant for bloody Durham, or at least _about_ him, and thinking it meant something real about him and Maurice. Maurice probably not even remembering it ever happened, thinking nothing of it. Thinking of Durham who was probably off doing something illegal or dangerous or both, and hadn't come to the cast party at all. But had spotted Vane in the cast, and invited him to one of _his_ parties when he ran into Vane in King's Parade a few days later.

"I went to Durham's party", Lestrade reads. "It was horrible. I didn't know people did that sort of thing. You would think someone would tell the police, at least about the drugs. They laughed at me because I didn't want to try. But Maurice doesn't either. Or the other things."

Vane hadn't specified _the other things_ but Lestrade gloomily assumes it's something sexual. Vane was clearly trying to hang on to the idea of Maurice as different from the rest of them, which it seems as if Maurice _was_. But Vane couldn't ignore what was going on between Maurice and Durham.

"I saw them standing together", Lestrade reads, "and Durham put his hand on Maurice's bottom and said something to him and Maurice was embarrassed but didn't move away. You can tell he really likes Durham. If you see them out in public they don't touch but you only have to look at Maurice's face to know what's going on."

Lestrade can imagine that easily enough. Maurice with it written all over him that he and Durham are lovers and it's all he's ever wanted, all he'll ever want. And the boy thinking he has no chance with Maurice at all, because he has no idea that Durham's going to rush into the closet and slam the door behind him the _minute_ he graduates. Has no idea that maybe if he'd waited -

Unlikely, though, just the same. Face it, Maurice clearly isn't over Durham even now, so what chance would poor bloody William Vane have had back then?

"I'm going to run away", Lestrade reads. "Can't stay here. Everything reminds me of him. It'll be different in London. One of Durham's friends said I could stay at his house till I find somewhere."

Lestrade feels slightly sick, as if he can see the rest of the story unrolling like a cartoon strip in front of his eyes. It's a familiar story, God knows: the friendly host becomes a sexual predator, or drink and drugs get into the picture somehow, or the boy becomes a trophy or a toy to be passed around between the more experienced ones. Lot of homeless kids have a story like that somewhere. Is that what happened to Vane? The diary ends as he's about to leave for London, so Lestrade doesn't know.

He looks at Hughes uncertainly, as if the rest of Vane's story might be written on Hughes's face. Doesn't think it is though.

"How did he die, Mr Hughes?" he asks, hoping to God that question is OK.

Hughes looks green – a greyish sort of green but still recognizably green. "They said it was drugs. He wasn't a boy who did drugs. And they said -"

Looks as if Lestrade guessed right about the sex as well. Hughes doesn't try to finish whatever the sentence was going to be.

Maurice has started saying over and over again that he's _sorry_ , he's _so sorry_ , he had no _idea_ , he never _knew_. Lestrade thinks this almost certainly isn't going to help, but also that telling Maurice to shut up is not a good plan, the state he's in.

What he _can't_ really work out is why Hughes has come after Maurice rather than Durham's bastard friends who are so much more obviously to blame for what happened to the poor kid.

"He could have been _normal_ , but for you," Hughes says suddenly to Maurice, who is still saying _sorry_ over and over again. "Could have had a life. You took that from him and you didn't even _notice_." Hughes's voice cracks, for the first time, and Lestrade realizes the man is close to tears.

"You didn't even know he was _dead_ ," Hughes says.

Maurice shakes his head.

"It was in the paper," Hughes says. "Not the details, but -"

That makes sense, Lestrade thinks. Sherlock must have cross-checked for any news reports matching the names of boys in the cast and found this one. Obvious when you think about it.

Still not sure what Sherlock thought he was doing placing that announcement in the _Times_ though. Got things moving, all right. Moving all the way to the morgue. _Thanks, Sherlock._

Where the fuck _is_ Sherlock when you need him?

"You do realize Mr Hall couldn't have placed that notice in the _Times_ , don't you?" Lestrade says. Playing for time or trying to throw a spanner in the works.

Hughes looks at him as if to say _Of course_. Probably thinks Lestrade did it himself. Given that Sherlock used Lestrade's warrant card, that would be a fair deduction.

Maurice says suddenly and unexpectedly " _You_ said you knew who'd done that."

Lestrade remembers saying it, so long ago now it could have been in another lifetime.

"Yes," he says.

"Indiscreet of John to tell you that, Inspector," a new voice says. "I'll have to take him to task when I get home."

 _Sherlock_. And about bloody time too.

Not _just_ Sherlock, fortunately. Because even Sherlock, smart as he is, is not necessarily a match for a man with a gun, even one who's not _used_ to guns.

Lestrade has seldom been more pleased to see a room full of police officers.

It's still looking tricky about the gun, though. Especially as Hughes's reaction is to grab Maurice and use him as a human shield. Backing towards the window rather than the door, which makes no sense at first. Then makes sense in a really alarming way. Lestrade's stomach lurches as he pictures two bodies falling twenty-eight floors to smash on the pavement in front of the building.

In the event it's Sherlock who distracts Hughes's attention by hurling a paperweight at him and yells at Maurice to _get down_. Maurice doesn't really need telling, given he can hardly stand up. Somebody fires – there'll be questions asked about that later but please God it won't be Lestrade's job to answer them. He's joined the civilians for the evening, snug in a suit of ropes.

Hughes is hit, left upper arm it looks like. Bleeding quite a lot. Drops his own gun, which someone retrieves, not particularly cleanly, more questions about organization here but for once some other bugger can have the headache of that. Somebody's untying Maurice, who is so numb he can't really move, and somebody else is untying Lestrade, who isn't much better, quite frankly.

And somehow, in amongst all that, Michael Hughes manages to open the window and throw himself out.

So there really _will_ have to be an enquiry, what with all that police presence, and God only

knows what will come out at it. Lestrade's not thinking about that for now, though, or about the nightmares he knows are lying in wait for him. _The sound of Hughes falling. The last hour with Maurice and Hughes. The last days of William Vane._ He's got all that to come, despite his years in the job. Christ knows what _Maurice_ has in store. But for now Lestrade concentrates on the fact that he is alive, and Maurice is alive. Which, at various points in the last hour, was looking pretty fucking unlikely. He seems to have stopped wishing he was dead, too, which is probably all for the best.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock, who has picked up the paperweight again and is turning it over in his hands. The expression on Sherlock's face is, well, _odd_. Even for Sherlock.

Lestrade has just about enough energy left to wonder what it means.


	8. Welcome To The Human Race

"You mean he took the job because I lived in the building?" Maurice asks wonderingly.

It's two days later - _the fifth day_ – and there are five of them in the sitting-room at 221b Baker Street: Sherlock, John Watson, Lestrade, Maurice and Clara. Donovan's gone home already, though she did at least stay for dinner. Quite a good dinner, too: JW can _cook_. In addition to all his other bloody virtues, Lestrade thinks gloomily.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock, waiting for the scornful response that would usually follow a question as dozy as Maurice's. Nothing. Not even a _**Do**_ _try to keep up, Maurice_. Not like Sherlock.

"Yes, that seems to be what happened," JW says. _Such a nice nature_ , Lestrade jeers to himself. _Always ready to help the slower boys in the class._

Maurice continues to look wide-eyed and more surprised than anyone in his situation really has the right to be. Even though they're discussing the case, what strikes Lestrade the most is how weirdly normal it feels to be sitting here with this odd combination of people. Maurice looks right at home, too. Though Lestrade can still see the traces of nightmares, signs of broken sleep.

Maurice and JW seem to get on surprisingly well, despite their very different backgrounds. Maurice and Sherlock, who you'd think would have more in common, not so much. Lestrade briefly allows himself a fantasy where Maurice and JW fall madly in love and run away together, leaving him a clear field with Sherlock. Not going to happen though.

"The different surnames slowed us down a bit," Watson goes on. "That piece in the local paper didn't give Michael Hughes's surname. Wasn't till we found the inquest report -"

Sherlock gets up impatiently and goes over to the window. Almost a relief to see he can still be infuriated by someone going slowly through the bleeding obvious. But he doesn't _say_ anything, which normally he would for sure.

Lestrade runs through selected items from the Sherlock Insults back catalogue:

 _Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring!_

 _Oh look at you lot, you're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing._

 _She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. _

Nothing. Really isn't like him to be this tolerant. All bloody Watson's influence, bound to be. Shack up with a man who's the intellectual equivalent of a teddy bear, it's going to have an effect. Sherlock is changing and Lestrade doesn't like it. He sighs.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks, turning round quickly.

Second time in a week he's asked Lestrade that. Must be Christmas.

"Fine," Lestrade lies.

"You don't _look_ fine." Sherlock's tone is suspicious.

"Well, that's probably because every time I look at your hands and your mouth now I think of _bed_ and every time you say anything nice to me like you just did I have to hold on to the table so I don't fucking well _faint_."

He didn't really say that out loud, did he?

No, people are still drinking coffee as if nothing has happened. It's all right. Sooner or later he _is_ going to forget and actually say it, and then -

Not even going to think about that.

"Wish I hadn't given up smoking," he says, thinking that _nicotine cravings_ sounds like a reasonable explanation for _not looking fine._

JW and Clara put on their Zero Tolerance faces, which pisses Lestrade off quite a bit. Wouldn't mind betting _they_ have their own little addictions they don't want to give up. Could hazard a guess at JW's for a start. Still, he supposes that having a drunk like Harry Watson for a sister or partner would give you _that look_ around addicts. Probably explains why there's a bit of snap and crackle between Clara and Sherlock: she knows about Sherlock's drugs history, isn't sure it's going to _stay_ history, doesn't want to see John going through what she went through with Harry.

Doesn't explain why she looks at Lestrade the way she does from time to time though. It's almost like she knows something about what happened with Lestrade and Sherlock the other night. Bit uncomfortable. Seems a nice enough woman in other ways. For a lawyer. She certainly put her back into helping crack that case, when it wasn't her problem. She was the one who'd found the Hughes connection in the end.

"What's happening about the enquiry?" she asks now.

Good question.

"Durham's trying pretty hard to get it hushed up," Lestrade says.

Maurice winces.

Lestrade keeps forgetting to be careful how he talks about Durham in front of Maurice, despite his good resolutions. Still thinks the man is a complete shit and that most of this has been his fault. But not helpful to say so to Maurice. Or not yet awhile.

"Anyway," Lestrade says, "we'll just have to wait and see."

"I made an awful mess of things, didn't I?" says Maurice, not for the first time.

"Yes, you _could_ say that!" Sherlock snaps.

" _Sherlock!"_ Three voices raised in indignation.

"I'm going for a _walk_ ," Sherlock says crossly. "Fed up with sitting around listening to _the same things all the time."_

He's gone for a while, and by the time he gets back they've stopped talking about the case. Lestrade is sitting in the armchair, almost dropping off. Still hasn't caught up on his sleep, and the nightmares aren't helping. Having Maurice staying with him isn't helping either, though it's quite nice in a slightly odd sort of way. Maurice really _should_ have gone into the Priory for a nice quiet nervous breakdown, but he'd refused to do any such thing. Or do anything _except_ go and stay at Lestrade's. Understandable that he hasn't wanted to go back to his own flat yet. It's even understandable that he's a bit clingy after that fucking awful time they had with Hughes. Still thinks Lestrade is the only one who could have got him through that, and he's pathetically grateful. Gets a bit embarrassing sometimes.

Meanwhile, Lestrade has a crick in his neck from sleeping on his own sofa because he insisted Maurice should have the bed.

He really _does_ need to do something about that chivalrous streak.

Tonight Maurice thinks he should brave the flat and go home. Lestrade has already said Maurice is not going back there on his own. But at least Maurice has a spare room – probably got several, size of the place – so permanent neck damage is not on the cards.

JW and Clara have got stuck into a conversation about this French film they went to see, which turns out to be one of Maurice's all-time favourites. The three of them keep quoting lines from it and either falling about laughing or groaning exaggeratedly with delight. Not a conversation any outsider should attempt to join in. So Lestrade doesn't. And neither does Sherlock when he finally comes back.

Sherlock seems preoccupied, maybe even unhappy, Lestrade's not sure. Fidgeting about, can't seem to settle.

"What's up?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock doesn't answer for a bit. Then he says "I put you in danger."

Surprising. Not something Lestrade would expect him to worry about.

"It turned out OK, though, didn't it?" he says.

"It might not have," Sherlock says.

"Plenty more where I come from," Lestrade says, knowing he's pushing it a bit but wanting Sherlock to say something nice to him again.

"Fuck off," says Sherlock.

Lestrade's quite happy with that, as it goes.

"Watch it, Sherlock, you'll have me thinking you _care_ in a minute," he says.

 _Stop it Lestrade you complete and utter_ _ **tart**_ _._ Next thing you know he'll start batting his eyelashes at Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn't say anything. Looks at him.

Just as well Lestrade is sitting down, because the look makes him feel _most_ peculiar. In a good way. If having your insides turn over can be considered good.

Sherlock seems to be trying to make his mind up whether to say something, and Lestrade would _really_ like to hear what it is. Especially following on from that look Sherlock just gave him. Though he does think there's a serious risk of spontaneous combustion if the room gets any hotter than it seems to have got in the last thirty seconds.

There's a sudden burst of laughter from the other conversation, and the mood shatters. Sherlock turns away to the window again, leaving Lestrade feeling like he's not wearing enough clothes. Room temperature definitely dropping now.

"I must go," Clara says. "Got a big case starting tomorrow. But look, Maurice, if you want to go to that Carné retrospective next month give me a call, OK?"

She gives Maurice her card. Another unlikely connection, but why not?, Lestrade thinks. Clara probably has some like-minded friends Maurice can bang on to about French films. Do him good. The ordinariness of gay life: one of the things you miss if your life is stuck in the closet.

Or stuck thirty years in the past. Stuck at eighteen, quite a young eighteen at that, when Durham kicked him in the teeth and went off to join the Moral Majority. Maurice didn't know how to grow up because he was afraid, thought it was his fault. That if he'd been different it wouldn't have happened. Some of that came out in that first long rambling conversation with Lestrade. No wonder he couldn't make another relationship, or do much of anything at all. Maybe he'll be different now, though, Lestrade thinks. Experience like that is bound to change the guy in _some_ way, even if you can't yet predict what it'll be.

Meanwhile, Sherlock still has his back to Lestrade. Doesn't look like he's going to turn round even to say goodbye. Maurice is saying they'll walk Clara to the taxi rank, Clara doing a bit of a feminist strop but then saying OK, thanks.

Fuck it. Lestrade is _not_ having this. He gets up stiffly from the armchair and goes over to stand next to Sherlock, looking down into Baker Street.

"You solved the case, Sherlock. And you saved Maurice's life. Most people would call that a result."

Sherlock looks at him, and Lestrade can't read the look, except that it seems a darker, more unhappy look than before. Lestrade is very aware of the other people in the room, and how impossible it is to say anything private. Also that standing so close to Sherlock probably isn't a great idea if he wants to walk out of here with his dignity intact.

"'Night," he says, moving away. "See you soon."

"Yes, I expect so," says Sherlock, sounding as if he's not looking forward to it at all.

Trust Lestrade to spoil the moment by doing something stupid. Serves him right.

Lestrade, Maurice and Clara go downstairs and out into the street. Lestrade looks back up to see Sherlock still looking down at him. They go on staring for a moment, as Maurice and Clara rabbit on about something or other, Lestrade's not even listening.

Then JW comes over to the window, looks down to see what Sherlock's looking at. Sees Lestrade looking up.

And pulls Sherlock into a very public and lingering kiss, which Sherlock certainly doesn't seem to be resisting.

Lestrade turns away quickly, doesn't need to look at Sherlock and JW getting it on, thank you _very_ much. Message received and understood.

Because if ever there was a look that said Back Off, He's Mine, Lestrade just got it from JW. Right between the eyes.

 _Oh well._ Time to see Maurice home, brave Maurice's flat, attempt some kind of exorcism of the place. Not looking forward to trying to sleep _there_.

He'll be glad when this week is over. Here's the taxi now.

Still wondering what that look of Sherlock's meant though.


	9. Dreams Of What Could Be

"But you don't think I should just have tried to pay Hughes off in the first place?" Maurice asks.

Lestrade can't see his face properly. Gets flashes of it when the taxi goes past another street light, but too brief. This conversation has been going round in circles for some time.

"Never going to go away, though, was he?" Lestrade says. "He'd have come back with more and more demands, and I think he'd still have tried - " Doesn't need to finish that sentence.

Maurice is silent for a bit. They're close to the flat now, just a couple of streets away, and Lestrade knows he'll be getting tense. The memory of that last hour is still too vivid for comfort.

Hughes had wanted Maurice to _suffer,_ that was obvious. To suffer the way William Vane had, the way Hughes had when his brother died. But, almost certainly, Maurice just suffering wouldn't have been enough. Sooner or later they'd have ended up where they did, with a death. Maybe more than one.

The taxi pulls up outside the building. Maurice pays. Lestrade doesn't argue, he's not stupid. There have to be _some_ limits to how much you look after someone who really isn't your responsibility at all.

He makes himself stop to say something to the new concierge, notice his name badge, log his description mentally. Still feels sick when he thinks about all that. Proper fucking shamefest this week has been.

They ride the glass lift, _not_ looking down at the street. The flat's in darkness, of course, and Maurice shivers a bit, putting the light on. Takes a minute before they can make themselves cross the threshold. Maurice seems sort of _frozen_. Hardly surprising, given what happened in there. Up to Lestrade to do something.

"Cup of tea would be nice," he says. "Happy to make it if you show me where things are."

"OK." Maurice almost manages the ghost of a smile.

Nice kitchen. _Very_ nice kitchen, but you'd expect that. Nice to be _in_ the kitchen, because it doesn't have any memories.

Doesn't have any milk either. Bugger.

"Drink instead?" Maurice offers.

Lestrade knows he should say no, but he says yes.

 _Bloody hell, Maurice knows where to buy wine all right_. Should have expected that, but still. No point in logging the name, he'll never be able to afford it. Just enjoy it while it lasts.

Maurice snorts suddenly.

"What?" Lestrade says.

"Line from that film again, sorry. They're drinking wine and Lemaître says _It goes down like a cherub in red velvet tights_."

"Typical bloody French _filth_ ," says Lestrade, and they laugh. For a moment there's just this, laughing and drinking ridiculously good red wine in Maurice's kitchen. As if nothing had happened. But they can't stand here all night. Have to go back into the sitting-room sooner or later.

This time they sit side by side, close to each other but not touching. Maurice puts some music on, a Robert Wyatt track Lestrade hasn't heard for years. Round Midnight. Good choice. Wouldn't have pegged Maurice as a Wyatt fan, but it's the music of their youth, or part of it. 1982, the Falklands, Wyatt singing Elvis Costello's Shipbuilding. This was the other side on the EP. Lestrade gives a deep contented sigh, takes another pull at the wine, which – OK, he knows it's supposed to get better when you let it breathe but when it's that good to start with ... _Fuck_ , this is nice. Wyatt's melancholy voice and Thelonious Monk's song and gorgeous wine and – actually being with Maurice is pretty nice as well. Sort of _restful_.

The thought lasts all the way into the kiss.

" _Maurice_ ," Lestrade says, spilling wine on the sofa. _Shit._

"Sorry," Maurice says. Blushing like crazy.

Lestrade retreats into the kitchen to find a wet cloth for the wine stain. Maurice comes in, gets a bottle of _white_ wine, opens it, goes into the sitting-room again.

"Best thing for red wine stains," Maurice says, mopping at the sofa. Not looking at Lestrade. Back of his neck is all red.

What the fuck is Lestrade supposed to do _now_?

Apart from trying not to spill any more wine, obviously.

They sit down again, rather gingerly.

"Got a bit carried away," Maurice says apologetically.

"Oh, _Maurice_." Lestrade doesn't know whether to shake him or hug him.

Probably shouldn't be the latter.

But it's not Lestrade's week for making good choices.

For a shy person, Maurice is quite a good kisser, Lestrade thinks. Surprising. _Really_ shouldn't be doing this, but it's too nice to stop, and it's been such a bloody awful week. You'd have to be a sight more self-disciplined than Lestrade is feeling right now to say no to this. His head's starting to swim a bit, though, what with the wine and the kissing, and it's getting hard to breathe.

 _Whoa._

They break apart and sit looking at each other, uncertainly.

"This probably isn't a good idea," Lestrade says.

"No, probably not," Maurice agrees.

The second kiss is more passionate and more determined, and Maurice is tugging Lestrade's shirt away from his trousers and sliding his hands up Lestrade's back, _oh God_ , to his shoulder-blades, then the back of his neck _._ Lestrade moans a bit, tries again to tell himself _this is all wrong_ , but he's fumbling at Maurice's shirt buttons, hands shaking, desperate for the feel of skin on skin. Kissing Maurice's neck, his collarbone, teasing the hollow at the base of Maurice's throat with his tongue. Running his tongue lightly up to that spot behind Maurice's ear, making Maurice cry out and clutch his hands in Lestrade's hair.

"I want to go to _bed_ with you," Maurice says hoarsely.

"OK," Lestrade says. No breath to say anything else.

 _Christ_ , Maurice looks good with his clothes off. Too bloody good, really. And looking at _Lestrade_ like he's the most beautiful thing Maurice has ever seen, which is so intense it's almost embarrassing. Bed makes everyone look better, right? Even Lestrade.

No more time to get shy, though, because Maurice clearly has plans for Lestrade and he's stronger than he looks. Flat on his back with Maurice's thigh pressing him down against the mattress, Lestrade pushes up against him, running his hands down Maurice's back and making him catch his breath.

Lestrade worries he's going to come just from Maurice pressing against him, which would be a real shame. But Maurice pulls back, then leans over to kiss Lestrade's neck _just there_ , oh God, how does he know that's the place? Slow trail of kisses moving down Lestrade's chest and stomach, Lestrade gripping the mattress now, he knows what's coming but it's still astonishing, that moment when Maurice's mouth is on him, the shock of it making him gasp.

 _Bloody hell, Maurice is good at this._ Lestrade abandons himself blissfully to the best thing ever invented, no contest.

Second time in a week. Somebody must have moved his birthday and forgotten to tell him. _Shit_. He shouldn't be thinking about the other time -

and then he isn't, because the world has shrunk to that thing Maurice is doing with his tongue, _oh God_ , yes, _now_.

Jesus. Might have blacked out there for a moment.

When his vision clears again he sees Maurice looking down at him, funny mixture of shyness and pride on his face, like an artist showing off his latest work.

Lestrade feels he ought to say something, even if it's only "Thank you." But all that comes out is "Mmfff."

Maurice grins. A real proper grin. Nice to see that. Lestrade almost expects him to say _Gotcha_. But not quite. Too nicely brought up.

When Lestrade has got his breath back, which takes a bit longer than he'd expected, he asks Maurice rather awkwardly what _he'd_ like.

"That was it," Maurice says.

Lestrade looks at Maurice's erection and says "Really?"

"What I wanted," Maurice says. "Wanted it the first time I saw you."

Lestrade blushes, even though it's not exactly news to him.

"What else do you like?" he asks.

Maurice thinks a bit and then says "Being fucked."

One of those times when it's not good to be in your forties.

"Not sure I can do much for a bit," Lestrade says apologetically. "You should have said."

"Wanted that more," Maurice says unrepentantly. "I'm fine."

Still, can't leave a man in that condition, not if there's something you can do about it. And particularly not if he's just made you come like _that_. So Lestrade experiments a bit with this and that, kissing and touching, trying to find out what else Maurice might like, and eventually Maurice comes, rather surprised by the whole thing, with his cock squeezed tight between Lestrade's thighs.

"I think it's called intercrural sex," Lestrade says meditatively, showing off a bit in his turn.

Maurice's turn to be incapable of speech. Takes him quite a while to recover.

Eventually he says "Stay with me?"

"Here all night," Lestrade says. "Promise. Not going anywhere."

Looking like a better night's sleep tonight. Lestrade hopes so, at least.


	10. Small Hours

A better night's sleep tonight. Until some time round about 4 a.m. when Lestrade wakes up. Wakes up absolutely convinced that he's in bed with _Sherlock_.

Not really happening, obviously. One of those, what d'you call it, _hypnagogic states_. Between sleeping and waking.

Though Sherlock is the one person Lestrade knows who might _actually_ turn up in bed with you when you'd gone to bed with someone else altogether.

For a mad moment he almost wonders if Sherlock and Maurice _have_ changed places in order to wind him up. Though he knows that's impossible, and it must just be his mind playing tricks on him. But what a trick to choose. _Christ_.

He feels horribly exposed and more than a bit sick. Scared to put the light on in case it's _really_ true. Keeps telling himself it isn't and that he'll wake up in a minute.

Maybe the wine's not helping. Get himself a glass of water, some fresh air perhaps. Try to wake up properly.

Lestrade gets out of bed and goes into the sitting-room, breathes in big gulps of cool air from the just-open window. Tries not to think about Michael Hughes jumping out of it. Tries not to look down to where Hughes fell.

Instead, he looks out at the river and the night, London with all its light pollution blotting out the stars. Oddly reassuring. He gets a pint mug of water from the kitchen and sits staring out through the wall of glass, waiting for his mind to return to normal. Waiting to calm down enough to go back to bed with Maurice, who please God will _be_ Maurice again when Lestrade goes back into the bedroom. _If_ he does.

He's had this sort of hallucination once or twice before when he's not quite awake and not quite asleep. Knows it doesn't mean you have to send for the men in white coats to take DI Lestrade away in a plain van. Even if right now he does feel next door to crazy with this fucking awful trick his mind has chosen to play on him. First time in _years_ he gets his end away with a nice man who really likes him, and now _this_. The unfairness of it almost chokes him.

Lot of unfairness around, mind you. Lestrade would like a word with whoever is running the universe, because the present arrangement is seriously fucked-up. He thinks about Vane and Maurice and Durham; Maurice and himself and Sherlock. _Refuses_ to think about Sherlock and JW. But really: _what_ a mess. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

Vane couldn't handle being rejected by Maurice – well, _rejected_ isn't really the word for someone not even noticing you're in love with them because they're in love with someone else. So the boy had gone looking for oblivion in drugs and the wrong kind of sex, till that life snuffed him out.

Maurice, well, ... Maurice is in with a chance of recovery. Some quite promising signs there, even if it did take a murderous blackmailing lunatic to wake him up at last. But what a waste of thirty years that had been. All the things Maurice could have done, the fun he could have had. The _lovers_ he could have had. _Christ_. Still, it's not too late for him. Especially given his hidden talents. Lestrade finds he's wearing a silly grin, thinking about his recent experience of _Maurice's hidden talents_. Notthe way to keep a clear head, though, so he tries to get back to his train of thought.

Which brings him to Sherlock and whatever the fuck is going on with Sherlock at the moment. Because even by Sherlock's standards his behaviour recently has been _weird_.

Breaking into Lestrade's flat – well, that's almost normal for Sherlock, though still _bloody_ annoying. And nearly gave Lestrade a heart attack at the time.

Sherlock ambushing Lestrade for sex was ... not normal at all. And Lestrade is not sure he buys the explanation about shock tactics, even though it _does_ sound fucked-up enough to be something Sherlock would think was a good idea. But there's that other thing Sherlock said about why he'd jumped Lestrade, the thing he said just before the kiss. _Thought it might be nice. It was._ Lestrade shivers with pleasure, remembering that.

He _knows_ Sherlock enjoyed having sex with him that other time, at 221b Baker Street. With bloody Watson prowling around and getting in the way, but still. Also that Sherlock obviously hadn't had much sexual experience before, going by some of his reactions. Keen but surprised, mostly, Sherlock had been.

Must have had more practice since, given he and bloody Watson are shagging now. At least Lestrade assumes they are. That's certainly the message JW's giving off. Loud and clear.

Might not be very _good_ sex though, Lestrade thinks hopefully. Often isn't, early days of a relationship. Specially if one of you hasn't had sex with a man before – which he'd be willing to bet JW hasn't – and the other one hasn't had much experience of sex with _anybody_.

Lestrade embarks on a fantasy where sex with JW is _really_ crap and Sherlock is driven into the arms of _the only man who has ever made him feel_ \- Oh shit. This is embarrassing. Not fair. The whole point about fantasy, surely, is that you can imagine whatever you like.

Not working now though. Bugger.

There'd be hell to pay if it _did_ happen, he knows that. Happen again, that is.

Not sure what _Sherlock_ thinks the rules of that relationship are, but it's obvious Watson thinks monogamy is the name of the game. Monopoly, more like: Go To Jail, Go Directly To Jail, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect Two Hundred Pounds. Can't blame the bastard though. Lestrade knows he'd want to monopolize Sherlock himself if he ever got the chance.

But what _is_ it with these looks Sherlock keeps giving him?

Lestrade goes off into another fantasy where Sherlock is jealous of Maurice and has finally realized he wants Lestrade to be with _him_ instead: _It darted through Sherlock with the speed of an arrow that DI Lestrade must shag no one but himself_. He's blushing again over that one. Sort of thing that belongs in romantic fiction, not in 221b Baker Street.

Simplest explanation, and the most depressing, is that Sherlock's just feeling guilty and embarrassed about having sex with Lestrade the other night. Regretting it. Worrying JW will find out. That sort of thing.

But it didn't _look_ like that sort of thing, the look that made Lestrade's insides turn over. Makes them turn over again now, thinking about it.

No way to make sense of this. _Got nothing to go on_ , he thinks and remembers saying just that to Sherlock about the shooter. The one who killed the taxi-driver and saved Sherlock's life. Who Lestrade is _bloody_ sure was Watson, though he'll never be able to prove it. And doesn't _that_ make him sick?

 _Got nothing to go on_. His own voice, sounding defeated.

And Sherlock's voice, like a big cat's purring growl, pleased with himself: _Oh, I wouldn't say that._

Sherlock's not going to help Lestrade out with _this_ one, though, and the clues aren't adding up to anything much at all.

All he knows is that Sherlock's not his normal self at the moment. Which, given that Sherlock is normally rude, obnoxious, arrogant, inconsiderate, shameless, intermittently criminal, manipulative, unscrupulous, uncaring and an infuriating bloody know-all, should be a relief. But somehow isn't.

Lestrade switches on his phone in case there's a text message signed SH. Nothing. Switches it off again. No point in keeping it on.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring at the view and feeling vaguely unhappy, before Maurice comes in. At least it _is_ Maurice, which is something. Seems to have got some pyjamas on from somewhere, rather nice ones. He's carrying a dressing-gown. Not blue silk, thank Christ. It's warm and soft. He puts it round Lestrade, who suddenly realizes he is cold and probably has been for some time.

"Are you OK?" Maurice asks.

Lestrade doesn't say anything, because he doesn't think he can.

Maurice puts his arms around him, which Lestrade doesn't resist, and they sit like that for a while not saying anything. Lestrade is practically falling down with tiredness and it would be nice to go back to bed where it's warm, but he is afraid the hallucination will happen again and he doesn't think he can cope.

Maurice's breath is on his forehead, stirring his hair. Maurice smells of warmth and sleep and bed. Three of Lestrade's favourite smells. Maurice's arms are holding him with just the right degree of firmness. It ought to feel good. Ought to feel _really_ good. And it just doesn't. _The wrong person_. Lestrade feels like shit.

Maurice starts stroking his back and kissing him, and Lestrade's body starts saying hopefully _well, why not_? But he pulls away just the same.

"I thought you were him," he blurts out. "I woke up, and I thought - "

Maurice flinches, like he's just been slapped. Not far off it, either, Lestrade thinks. _Why did you have to tell him that, you stupid git?_

"Sherlock," Maurice says. Not even a question really.

Lestrade nods. There's a silence. Quite a long silence.

Eventually Maurice says "Well, that's bad luck." Sounding as if he's talking about a flat tyre or something, but his face doesn't match his voice.

"Isn't it?" says Lestrade.

They contemplate the bad luck for a bit. Seems to be nothing to say.

"I'm not looking for a great romance or anything," Maurice says after a while.

Lestrade knows; but it doesn't help. Can't fake emotion if it's not there.

"I know I'm probably not much good in bed," Maurice says, sounding a bit shy for someone who did what he did to Lestrade earlier on, "but I'm sure I'd improve with practice."

"Nothing wrong with how you are in bed," Lestrade says firmly. And there isn't. But he can't think about that or he'll get distracted.

Maurice looks happier for a moment, which is nice, but also difficult, because he really shouldn't be getting his hopes up about this one.

"Look," Lestrade says. "This is all no good. I can't give you what you want. What you _need_ right now."

Which is true, isn't it? Maurice is only just starting to come to terms with himself after all these years. The last thing he needs is a relationship with some poor stupid fucker who is still in love with someone else.

Lestrade's gut clenches all over again at even thinking _in love with,_ but he doesn't have the strength to reject the idea.

"I'd settle for a fuck buddy," Maurice says, surprisingly. Then ruins the effect by saying "If that's the correct term."

Lestrade snorts. "It is," he says. "But I don't think that would work."

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't be fair on you."

Maurice tries to pass it off lightly: "What could possibly be wrong with an arrangement where I get to have lots of sex with my favourite DI?"

Nice try, but his voice shakes a bit, and Lestrade knows he's right about this one. Emotions would get in the way.

Though he thinks some of this is less about him as a person than Maurice's gratitude for making him feel better about being gay. Lestrade's just been a catalyst or a lightning-conductor or something. Can't have a meaningful relationship with one of those.

"Seems to me you need someone who can be with you properly," Lestrade says. "Partner, boyfriend, that sort of thing."

"I expect you're right," Maurice says.

Then, after a pause, he asks "So, can I still have sex with you while I'm looking for one?"

Lestrade knows he should probably say no, but the question takes him off guard, makes him laugh. Plus, Maurice's hand has somehow got in between Lestrade's thighs and is doing things to Lestrade's cock that make it difficult to think clearly. Maurice is kissing Lestrade's neck and then blowing gently in his ear and -

" _Not_ doing this on the sofa," Lestrade says, with an effort.

"Come back to bed then," says Maurice. Sounding quite pleased with himself. As well he might be.

He kisses Lestrade's neck again, lingers over it, slight pressure with his teeth, going to leave a mark for sure -

Lestrade groans. Never could resist that spot, especially not like this.

"Just this once, OK?" he manages, and hopes he means it.

"Of course," Maurice says. "Absolutely understood."

An obvious lie if ever Lestrade heard one. But he's in no position to insist. He's not sure he's going to make it as far as the bedroom.


	11. The Old Bad Songs

A few weeks later, and not for the first time, Maurice turns up at Lestrade's with a nice bottle of wine. A _very_ nice bottle of wine, in fact. And obvious intentions. And despite all Lestrade's good resolutions they end up having sex again. Which is almost as nice as the wine, but still feels wrong.

"We've got to stop doing this", Lestrade says afterwards.

Maurice is still getting his breath back, so he doesn't say anything for a bit. Lestrade looks at him. Thinks again how beautiful Maurice is in his very particular, absolutely normal, fair-haired, regular-featured-handsome-Englishman way. Looking even better for being naked and frankly dishevelled, still all loose-limbed and befuddled in the aftermath of sex. Anyone in their right mind would be delighted to have this man collapsed across their bed in a just-fucked haze.

It really is a crying shame Lestrade's not in his right mind. But he still isn't, and he doesn't think he's ever going to be. Not while he still feels the way he does about Sherlock.

Maurice's breathing gradually steadies, and his eyes lose their cloudy look.

"I know," he says. "This is the last one."

"You said that last time," Lestrade reminds him. "And the time before."

Maurice grins ruefully. "I did, didn't I? But this time I mean it. I'm going to start looking. Seriously looking."

For a partner, boyfriend, something like that. He doesn't have to say it. Lestrade knows. "Better idea," he says.

"Yes," says Maurice. "I'm sorry it couldn't be you, but I do know it can't."

Lestrade nods, because he finds he can't say anything.

"You are wasted on him, you know that?" Maurice says gently.

Lestrade just looks at him, because even nodding feels too difficult right now.

He still has no idea what's going on with Sherlock. If anything, this whole business of Sherlock _looking at him like that_ is getting more confusing, not less. Lestrade keeps thinking he'll manage to say something to Sherlock about it but he never does. Even when it happens again. Which it seems to be doing quite a lot.

"Brought you a present," Maurice says, getting up and starting to pull on his clothes.

"What, another one?" Lestrade says, looking at the wine.

"That wasn't a present, that was a seduction," Maurice says. He doesn't quite add _you idiot_ , but it sort of hangs in the air.

"Go on then," says Lestrade ungraciously, starting to get dressed as well. "What's this present?"

It's a CD. Nice-looking man on the cover, who must be the singer. Looks about their age. _Classical_ , Lestrade registers, suppressing a groan. Trouble with posh lovers, they always want to improve your mind.

He looks at the track listing on the back and his manners desert him.

"Maurice, it's in _German_."

Maurice looks as if the words _I know that, you fuckwit_ are hovering on his lips. But he doesn't say them.

"There's a translation in the liner notes," he says instead.

"Sorry," Lestrade says remorsefully. "I'm an ungrateful bugger, aren't I?"

"You are," says Maurice, now fully dressed and hugging him. "But I'm not. So this is to say thank you. Thank you and goodbye."

That probably should be _goodbye for now_ , on past form. Lestrade hopes so, anyway. He's got quite fond of Maurice.

They kiss once more, and Christ it's a bloody shame Lestrade can't feel what he'd like to feel for this man because he is _fine_ , and a lovely kisser into the bargain. But it's just not going to happen and they both know it. Not for the foreseeable future, at any rate.

So Maurice goes, and Lestrade makes himself a massive pot of tea to try to fend off the hangover he can feel waiting in the wings. Looks at the CD, feeling guilty. Ought to put it on, really, give it a try at least.

He flips through the booklet, pulling faces at nightingales and more nightingales and linden trees and moonshine and the rest. Not his idea of a good song. Notices that Maurice has scrawled an asterisk by one song near the end of the booklet – at least he assumes it's Maurice. Wonders why. He puts the CD on, selects the track and sits down to listen, grumbling before the singing's even started because the piano is doing that jaunty German thing that reminds him of his sister's piano lessons when he was a kid. The Merry Peasant or some such bollocks.

Then he looks at the words, which are all about a boy who loves a girl who loves another boy who loves someone else, so the first girl marries someone else again, first person she sees, the boy we started with is hurt... Stupid fucking clichés. Don't know why the music has to sound so bloody cheerful about it either. The last verse says something like "It's an old story but it's always new, and when it happens to you it breaks your heart in half." _Yes, well, thank you for your input, Mr Hall_. Some present this turned out to be.

He thinks about getting up to turn it off but he can't be bothered. And the singer is good, have to hand it to him, and the pianist is no slouch either if you like that sort of thing. Lestrade's almost dropping off when the last track makes him jump: angry, harsh chords and an edge in the singing that wasn't there before. This one sounds oddly familiar. Actually, thinking about it, various bits of it have been. He dimly remembers one of the posh lovers back in the old days who might have dragged him to a concert with this in. Probably fancied the singer or something. He doesn't _think_ it was this singer, though he supposes it could have been.

He reaches down for the lyrics, which have fallen on the floor – he really _was_ dropping off there. The singer is saying he's going to bury his old bad songs and his bitter dreams in a massive great coffin which twelve giants will throw into the sea.

 _Always good to have a plan_ , Lestrade scoffs -

And is doing fine at resisting the song until the last verse, when the music gets darker and slower. The singer's explaining that the coffin has to be so big because he's planning to bury all his love and pain in it. Sentimental tosh, obviously, but something in the way he sings it catches Lestrade right under the ribcage, like a punch he didn't see coming. Right in the middle of a word, the singer's voice goes away almost to nothing. It's like he can't quite believe how _much_ of this pain there is, how much it hurts. Or like it's a secret he's trying to keep even from himself.

And that's the end, of the singing anyway. Piano's still burbling on, not unpleasantly. Lestrade coughs a bit, tries to clear his throat. _Maurice's bloody idea of a thank-you present -_

He's not even going to _try_ to finish that sentence.

That concert's coming back to him now, bits of it anyway. Bunch of songs about a poet and his love, self-indulgent fool Lestrade thought he sounded. Going on about a love that never really existed except in his mind. Just a kiss, if that, and then carrying on for half an hour tormenting himself because the girl marries someone else. Should just go out and get laid, young Lestrade had said, disgusted. Plenty more fish in the sea. What's the silly fucker whinging about? Put your stupid old lovesongs in the coffin, best place for them. Get over it, get over yourself and move on.

In those days, it had seemed as if there would always be plenty more fish in the sea. It hadn't ever occurred to him that even if there were that might not solve the problem.

Now – well, Lestrade knows it would take a bloody big coffin to put his feelings for Sherlock in. He's not sure twelve giants would be enough.

Seems you don't get rid of the old bad songs so easily. Lestrade sighs and drinks his tea and wonders if he ever will.

 **The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Bad Songs Tracklist**
> 
> Chapter 1
> 
> Watching the Detectives – Elvis Costello (My Aim Is True)
> 
> Chapter 2
> 
> The British Police Are The Best In The World
> 
> from Tom Robinson, Glad To Be Gay (released as single, 1978; complete history of the song can be found at http://gladtobegay.net/ )
> 
> Chapter 3
> 
> You'd Better Speak Up Now, It Won't Mean A Thing Later
> 
> from Elvis Costello, Fish 'N' Chip Paper (Trust, 1981)
> 
> Chapter 4
> 
> Mystery Dance – Elvis Costello (My Aim Is True, 1977)
> 
> Chapter 5
> 
> One Of The Minor Players
> 
> from Round Midnight, recorded by Robert Wyatt (Shipbuilding/Memories of You/Round Midnight, 1982)
> 
> Chapter 6
> 
> Waiting For The End Of The World – Elvis Costello (My Aim Is True, 1977)
> 
> Chapter 7
> 
> Just Too Bad That He Had To Fall
> 
> from I Don't Want To Hear It Any More, recorded by Jerry Butler (1964)
> 
> Chapter 8
> 
> Welcome To The Human Race
> 
> from Mr Blue Sky – Electric Light Orchestra (Out of the Blue, 1977)
> 
> Chapter 9
> 
> Dreams Of What Could Be
> 
> from Round Midnight, recorded by Robert Wyatt (Shipbuilding/Memories of You/Round Midnight, 1982)
> 
> Chapter 10
> 
> Small Hours – John Martyn (One World, 1977)
> 
> Chapter 11
> 
> The Old Bad Songs –
> 
> Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen (A Youth Loves A Girl) and Die Alten bösen Lieder (The Old Bad Songs)
> 
> from Robert Schumann, Dichterliebe (A Poet's Love)
> 
> I imagine the recording Maurice gives Lestrade is the 2009 one by Simon Keenlyside and Malcolm Martineau.
> 
> The film JW and Clara go to see and which Maurice quotes from is Marcel Carné's Les Enfants du Paradis (1945). It is 190 minutes long, not six hours, and is seriously gorgeous.


End file.
